Survive the Night (Lost, Inc.) Read online

  Why didn’t you just open the box? Frustrated, he cast an agitated glare at her neighbor’s house, the cottage next door. It was that stupid kid’s fault. If she hadn’t interfered, Della would have found the package. He’d have seen her open it. There’s no way she would have walked away without opening it. He’d have seen her panic and felt her fear.

  He thrived on her fear.

  For six weeks, the anticipation had been building, clawing at his stomach, urging him to rush. Temptation burned so strong but he’d strained mightily against it and fortunately his leash had held—at least, thus far. Discipline, man. To win requires discipline.

  It did. Enormous discipline. Della Jackson was not a fool. Yet neither was he. Each step had to be weighed, considered, calculated, the consequences determined from all sides. He’d planned down to the minutest detail. Created a backup contingency plan. Monitored and measured each act, each response, every possible reaction, and it was a good thing he had.

  She’d picked up on him following her right away—amazingly fast, actually. He begrudgingly gave her props for that. The woman had skills and the instincts to make her as good an investigator as she had been with computers. Those instincts made her dangerous.

  But his instincts and skills were stronger, more seasoned, perfected over two decades in a series of trials by fire. Soon she’d discover just how much superiority that gave him. Soon he’d see—

  Three cars whipped around the corner and slid to a stop at the curb in front of her cottage.

  So they weren’t cutting and running. Mason had stuck in his nose and called for backup. No cops. Military backup. A shudder rippled through his body, pressed his stomach into the cool dirt. Well, well. Interesting if mildly disappointing yet not wholly unexpected. He could deal with it. So he wouldn’t get to see her face when she saw what was inside the box. He could imagine her reaction easily enough.

  Horror and then rage. Helpless and hopeless and then finally, finally...Della Jackson eaten alive with fear.

  Inescapable, merciless, unrelenting fear.

  He could wait. Not tonight, but before this was done he would see all those things in her and more. And when she was emotionally drained dry and wrung out with nothing left and too weak to run, then...

  Then?

  Then he would kill her.

  Turning away, he slipped into the night.

  * * *

  “Della. Paul.” Major Harrison Beech extended his hand. “Good to see you, though I’m sorry about the circumstance.”

  He was a big man with close-cropped hair and a bulky build dressed in his BDU—battle dress uniform. The camo was light, but most of it was now, since they’d been at war in the desert for a decade. “I’m not sure what the circumstances are,” Della said honestly. “I hope we haven’t troubled you for nothing.”

  Beech motioned to his men to retrieve the box from the porch. “I hope you have.” He spared her a smile, grabbing a gear bag from his vehicle. “Any reason to expect explosives?”

  “We haven’t examined the package,” Paul said. “But Della was the target of a mailbox bomb when she was active duty.”

  “Yes.” Sadness crossed his face. “You were in theater, Afghanistan, but your husband and son...”

  She nodded. Clearly he’d been briefed on her dossier on his way over. “The man who did it, Leo Dawson, wasn’t convicted. He was a mental patient they’d cut loose. So they sent him back.”

  “Let me guess. He’s out now.”

  Again she nodded. “About six weeks, though I just learned of it. But I’m not sure this package is from him. That incident happened over three years ago. He has nothing to connect me to North Bay.”

  “As I recall, you weren’t stationed here when he planted the bomb.”

  “No, I’d already left the base.” When here, she had officially been assigned to Personnel, but actually she’d been in a top-secret facility only those with extremely high clearances knew existed. They referred to it as the Nest. Her mission had been to protect the Nest’s computer assets. Not that she knew the facility’s purpose. Only the commander and vice commander had clearance for that tight need-to-know loop. “When my family was attacked, I was stationed in Tennessee but deployed to Afghanistan.” She crossed her arms. Talking about this dredged up all the old feelings, painful memories she didn’t want to relive.

  Two of his men methodically tested the package. Della glanced back to Paul.

  “There’s a discrepancy between the return address and the actual shipping label,” Paul told Beech. “One’s Tennessee, the other a Walton County zip code.” Waloka’s neighboring county to the east.

  “Any credible suspects besides the mental patient?” Beech asked.

  “Dozens,” she confessed. “Working my cases for Lost, Inc., I ruffle a few feathers.”

  Paul smiled. “Della’s persistent about finding people who are lost—even those who don’t want to be found. Makes for some grateful friends, but for a few annoyed enemies, too.” He hiked a thumb toward the front door. “I’m going to check things out inside while you’re here.”

  Beech nodded and Paul went into the cottage, leaving the door open.

  Beech kept one eye on it and one on her. “You work for Madison McKay. Persistence runs through her whole agency.”

  “I do, and it does.” Persistence flowed through every staff member’s veins.

  He crossed his arms. “Any enemies in recent memory stand out from the rest?”

  “No.” She’d reviewed all the cases she’d handled in the past six months, and the mess in her office showed it. Missing husbands, kids seeking birth mothers, runaway teens, the odd embezzler and witness. But after running updates on old and new cases, she hadn’t seen anyone with serious potential for doing something to her like this.

  A few minutes later, Paul returned.

  “Anything?” Beech asked him.

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Major Beech,” one of his men called out. “Package is clear. Permission to open it, sir?”

  “Granted.” He turned back to Della. “Why did you call me?”

  “I didn’t. Paul did.” She shrugged. “I would have checked it out myself.” He gave her a strange look, so she explained. “I’ve had military explosives training.”

  “I see.” That apparently hadn’t been relayed from her dossier, or he hadn’t had access to the entire thing. He glanced at Paul for further explanation. “So you called me because...”

  “She’s been separated from the military for over three years. A lot’s changed.” His words and expression were at odds.

  Beech pursed his lips, nodding. “And you thought I’d keep the chain of evidence intact and my mouth shut about this.”

  “That, too.” Paul smiled.

  “Understood—provided we find nothing that poses a security risk.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Major, you’ll want to see this.” The man stood bent, shining a high-intensity flashlight into the box.

  Beech double-timed it over to where they stood. Della and Paul followed.

  “Hardly benevolent.” Beech motioned to her to look.

  Della peered inside. A bloody knife lay on a bed of shredded newspaper. She sucked in a sharp breath, forced herself to not back away.

  “There’s a note,” one of Beech’s men said.

  Signaling with a lift of his chin, Beech issued an order. “Extract it.”

  Another of his men pulled out a test pack, prepared a smear slide and then ran some preliminary studies on blood he’d gotten from the knife. “Tracking human, sir.”

  Della swallowed hard. She felt Paul looking at her but lacked the courage to meet his gaze.

  “Read the note,” Beech told the first.

  “Yes, sir.” He held the paper tilted to the light.

  Della clasped her hands at her sides and stiffened, bracing.

  The man cleared his throat, then read, “‘Your time is coming, Della. Once in a while, could you ea
t something other than Chinese food? Who will clean all those cartons out of your fridge after you’re gone? I wonder, but soon I’ll know.’ It’s signed, ‘D.B.D.’”

  Della sucked in a sharp breath, absorbed the shock.

  TWO

  The color drained from Paul’s face. “He’s been in her house. In her refrigerator.”

  Beech looked at Della. “Who’s D.B.D.?”

  “I don’t know.” She swung her gaze to Paul. “I’m not being evasive, I really don’t know.”

  “Who else has a key?”

  She looked back at Beech. “No one. Well, Miss Addie, next door. She’s my landlord. But I haven’t given a key to anybody.”

  Paul asked, “Do you have one stashed outside somewhere in case you lock yourself out?”

  “No.” Her mouth went dry, her inner lips sticking to her teeth. “I never thought to do that.”

  “What about the Chinese food?”

  “I ordered a ton of it Thursday night. I couldn’t decide what I wanted, so I got a little bit of everything.”

  “So there are a lot of Chinese food cartons in your fridge and they weren’t there before Thursday?”

  “That’s right.” Della frowned.

  “That narrows down the timeline on when he entered.”

  It did.

  A muscle in Paul’s jaw ticked. “You’re not telling me everything.”

  She wasn’t, and she didn’t want to now. Not with Beech here. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  “No explosives, so it’s your call,” Beech said. “What do you want to do?”

  What was she going to do? He’d been in her home.... The threats were definitely escalating. “The only person in Tennessee I know is my ex. I’d like to check his status.”

  “You two still close?”

  “No. But I can’t look his way without evidence.” She’d been on the receiving end of that from him. She’d never deliberately put another person through that. “I need to track this package.”

  “What about the knife?” Beech asked. “Don’t you want the locals to take it from us to protect the chain of evidence?”

  She wanted this mess to go away. She wanted peace. She’d never have it, but the shade of it she’d spent three years building was as close as she’d get, and she wanted it back. “Can you keep possession and give me a little time to see what I can find out?”

  “I can.” Beech rubbed at his thick neck. “I shouldn’t, but I will.”

  Della knew why he was willing. When she’d been assigned at the Nest, Beech had been at the Pentagon. According to Madison’s assistant, Mrs. Renault, he’d hooked up with an ambassador’s assistant named Christina. They’d been discovered, she’d been fired and he’d been sent to Iceland for a year. They’d done nothing wrong, but he’d played by the rules and been burned—and that’s why Paul had called him. Beech would understand. Others wouldn’t. Beech had returned from Iceland and married Christina, so at least things had worked out for him. But he hadn’t forgotten the challenges of having suspicion hanging over his head. “I appreciate it, Major.”

  Beech nodded, turning to one of the guys. “Log it in. I want art, and cut her a written receipt for it.”

  Art. Every conceivable kind of photo of everything.

  “Yes, sir.” He began taking snapshots of the outside of the box and working his way to capturing images of the contents.

  “Could you email me a photo of the shipping label?” Della asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He nodded and got busy.

  Soon they were done and departing. “Della,” Major Beech said. “You realize you’re on dangerous ground, right? If this was Dawson, he’s crazy and he has a violent history. If not, whoever it was has been in your home. Don’t take that lightly.”

  “I’m not, and I am aware.” Very dangerous ground. She’d been acutely aware of danger for weeks.

  “Very well. If you need me, call. Paul has the number.”

  “Thank you.” Della shook his hand and watched them load into their vehicles and pull away as silently and swiftly as they’d arrived.

  She turned to Paul, whose expression was more sober than she ever recalled seeing it. “What?”

  “What?” He frowned. “Della, what’s going on? You’re surprised but not shocked. Someone has invaded your home and you’re not acting violated. Why?”

  “I feel violated—everything victims usually feel. I’m just trying to keep my wits.”

  His frown warned he wasn’t buying it for a second. “I brought you to North Bay. I got you in with Lost, Inc. If some nut on one of your cases is after you, I have to help. We’re friends, and that’s what friends do. Just don’t hold out on me, Della. Tell me the truth.”

  “I really don’t know who he is or if it’s personal or case-connected. But this isn’t first contact. It started with me sensing someone was following me.” The hair on her neck had stood on end. Her flesh had crept and crawled. Her every instinct had shouted with certainty that someone was watching her, but she hadn’t seen anyone. Still, she knew. She knew.

  “And then...?”

  “I got the first note.”

  “The first note?” Surprise rippled through his voice, charged the air between them. “How many notes have there been?”

  “This is the second one.” Her stomach knotted.

  “What was in the first package?”

  “It wasn’t a package. Just the note. I was leaving for work one morning and found it under the windshield wiper on my car.”

  “So this person already knew where you lived and had been in your garage?”

  “Yes and no. He knew where I lived, but the car was parked outside that night, not in the garage.” She risked a glance up at Paul. “Baby killer—that’s all the first note said.” The words hurt her throat. Made her eyes sting.

  “What?” Paul looked thunderstruck.

  No way could she say it twice. She’d been honest but glossed over details of what had happened in Tennessee. Now she had no choice but to be specific. “Leo Dawson used that same term.” The urge to cry bit her hard. She refused it, just as she’d refused to shed the first tear since hearing about Danny. “Before I was deployed, Dawson and I got into an argument in my driveway. I was in uniform, out getting my newspaper. Dawson lived a few houses down the street. He’d heard I was being deployed and he blindsided me and beat me half to death. He said I had no right to abandon my son to go to Afghanistan. Then he called me...that. I don’t for sure know why. The man’s crazy. Nobody knew why.”

  “How old was Dawson?”

  “Fifty-five or so.”

  “Vietnam era,” Paul said. “Many called soldiers ‘baby killer’—it was a common antiwar slur.”

  “That’s what his psychiatrist said. Dawson had mental challenges, and events just made them worse. Around the neighborhood, people said he often slipped in and out of that era. His doctor said there were also people who exploited him. Apparently after the war he had been different but functional. They thought he was safe to cut loose, so they did. From all accounts, he did well until 9/11 happened. I guess the trauma of it and the war that followed set him off again. That was what his doctor suspected, anyway. To him, anyone with a weapon of any kind was a baby killer. That’s how his twisted mind associated things.”

  “What did you suspect?” Paul asked.

  “Nothing more than that until the mailbox bomb. But the day he assaulted me in the driveway, he told the police a mother should never leave her child, especially not to fight in a war. That a mother didn’t belong in the military, and one who was and would leave didn’t deserve a child.” She blinked hard, swallowed a knot from her throat. “He was clearly unbalanced. The police arrested him, and the D.A. settled. Dawson went back to the mental hospital and the D.A. didn’t pursue a conviction for the assault.” She shrugged. “I’m not blaming anyone. It seemed right at the time to me, too. He was sick. None of us could have known Dawson would get out and do what he did to Dan
ny and Jeff.” Danny had died and Jeff had been injured. He swore he’d rather have died, too, and having felt that way herself, Della felt certain he’d been sincere.

  “So Dawson is loose and you suspect he’s stalking you?”

  “I suspect it, but I don’t know it. I haven’t located him. I checked with some of our former associates.” Paul would intuit that she meant people still active in the intelligence community. She and Paul had revealed working in the realm during their assignments, but they hadn’t discussed specifics. Often she’d wondered if he’d been assigned to the Nest, too, and, if so, in what capacity. But of course she hadn’t asked. One of the first things you learned was to not ask questions if you didn’t want to be asked questions you didn’t want to answer. “They’ve confirmed Dawson’s release and that he returned home, but then he disappeared. No sightings for the last ten days.”

  “So he could be here.”

  “Or anywhere else in the world.” In ten days, he could have traveled to Fiji or Siberia. But in her gut she knew he hadn’t. He was here. He had to be here. Who else would send her a bloody knife and threatening notes?

  “I know you’ve checked. Nothing on travel, credit cards, any of the usual?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “What about comparing his handwriting to the first note?”

  “Zero cooperation on that. Can’t invade his privacy without formal charges.”

  “Which you haven’t sought because you lack sufficient proof.”

  “Exactly.” The local police would tar and feather her. They had clashed a few times on her cases, often enough for her to know not to expect any cooperation much less any favors. That was her fault. Too often, she pushed the line. She never crossed it, but she straddled it whenever the situation warranted. The police didn’t much appreciate that. If she stood on their side of the fence, she wouldn’t appreciate it, either.

  “We can have a comparison done on the two notes—you still have the first one, right?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Did he sign it the same way as this one—D.B.D.?”

  “No, he didn’t.” Della hedged. Paul wouldn’t like this. “But I think it’s the same person.”