Survive the Night

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 eat 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 Danny 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.”

“Why?” He lifted a finger. “No, wait. Let me save us some time and ask the right question. How did he sign the first note?”

She forced herself to meet Paul’s gaze. “Dead by Dawn.”

* * *

Paul pulled out his phone and started to key in a number.

“Stop,” Della insisted, covering his phone with her hand. “Who are you calling?”

“We need help, Della.” Paul frowned but didn’t touch the keys. “If we can’t prove this incident is case-connected and you can’t draw a connection from Dawson to you, then we’re dealing with an unknown. We need access and resources—and more eyes to keep you safe.”

“I know you’re not calling the Office of Special Investigations.”

In situations where ex-intelligence officers were under threat, that was the protocol, but they’d checked that box, if only unofficially, by his calling Beech. The last thing Della needed was the OSI digging into this. They would proceed as if she’d done something military-related that she shouldn’t have done, until it was proven otherwise. They both knew the drill. They’d worked it, and they understood the necessity for it, but it could put Della in a bad position with the military and hamper her in finding the stalker.

Paul stared at her through the shadowy light cast from the front porch. “We should call them, the local police and the FBI.”

Yes, former military members embedded in intelligence positions with their level of clearances were required to report all threats of any kind to the OSI, not to civilian authorities. But he had said all of them—OSI, local and FBI. She had to be wondering why.

“I don’t understand the FBI.” She kept her hand on his phone. “But please don’t do that to me.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand plenty.” Heat crept into her voice. “The OSI has been watching me like a hawk since I got the news about Danny’s death. You know I was a mess. Depression, grief—all that. I worked Intel, Paul. I know too much about too many things, and you know they don’t trust anyone who knows anything and is emotionally stressed. You call them, and the first thing they’re going to do is declare me a security risk. They’ll get my Class-C license revoked. Without it, I can’t do my job as an investigator, not to mention my carry permit. That happens, and if this stalker does try to kill me, I won’t even be able to defend myself.”

“Della, listen to me. Just listen, okay?” Paul paused, clearly hoping she would. “You know my training. You also know my sister.”

“What’s Maggie got to do with this?”

“I’ve protected her since we were kids. I’ve had to. But something happened last year that proved beyond any doubt, when you’re dealing with monsters capable of this kind of evil, one man’s protection isn’t enough. We need help.”

Tension crackled off her like hot live wires. “We’re not going to any of them,” she insisted, then fell silent.

“All right. You’ve got a point. The OSI would consider you a security risk, and probably would work to yank your license and carry permit until you proved you weren’t. But the blood on that knife tested human. Whose blood is it? And this stalker was in your home. He isn’t some amateur. He’s a serious stalker who could be anybody.”

“It has to be Dawson. He used the same words in the note.”

“Dawson is a mental patient. He could have told anyone, dozens already know it, and this stalker could be a copycat or someone who’s read about Dawson in the paper.” Paul winced. At the moment, he would give everything he had—his money, his ranch, even his horses and his beloved rottweiler, Jake—to not have to dispute her. “The fact is, we don’t yet know the stalker’s identity. This incident could be unrelated to Dawson. It could be related to me. I make a lot of enemies at Vet Net. It could be someone trying to get to me through you.”

“Doubtful. You help people reintegrate into civilian life after their military service, rebuild their families and find jobs. Okay, so some get irritated because you’re persistent, pushing for veteran’s rights, but they’re not the kind of people to inflict physical harm.”

“Not always true.” He let her see his worry. “You remember the Gary Crawford case?”

“The notorious serial killer. Sure, everyone not living under a rock knows about him.”

“Maggie was nearly his victim. The Utah incident last year—that was him, and he got away. It’s possible he’s your stalker.”

“Why would he come after me?”

“Because you’re important to me.” Paul clasped her hand. “Della, we can’t discount him. He left notes with his victims that he signed Baby Killer.”

* * *

Shock pumped through Della’s body. “Maggie was profiling Gary Crawford’s case?” She’d been an FBI agent, but she wasn’t anymore.

“Yes.”

“But she’s an artist now.” With her off the case he had no reason to hunt down Maggie, much less her brother, and even less reason to come after her brother’s friend. “No, it’s Dawson. He assaulted me. He bombed my mailbox and killed...”

Paul spared her having to say her son’s name. “Are you a hundred percent positive that you weren’t Leo Dawson’s intended victim?”

She lifted her hands. “I’d been in Afghanistan for months.”

“Did he know that?”

Della opened her mouth to answer but stopped short. Had he known? After a stream of home invasions, robberies and property thefts, the military kept specific deployment dates and names quiet to avoid making victims of those left at home. They even ordered soldiers to have their addresses removed from phone books. Dawson could have assumed the assault had kept her from being deployed. He could have believed she was at home and she would open the mailbox. “I don’t know.”

“So you could have been the intended victim?”

“Maybe.” It actually made more sense. Why would someone bomb a mailbox claiming to be protecting a child or use the “baby killer” slur to harm a child? More guilt layered on inside her. Dawson must have thought she was at home and she would be his victim. Oh, Danny. Mommy is so sorry. She crossed her chest with her arms to hold in the hurt. “Dawson likely did mean to kill me—” her voice cracked “—and my poor baby just got in the way.”

Paul clasped her shoulder. “I don’t know, Della. All I’m saying is that we both have enemies. Everyone in North Bay considers us a couple no matter how many times we tell them we’re not, so we shouldn’t just assume Dawson is your stalker. The reason for this could be tied to me.” The expression on Paul’s face sobered. “I hope not. But it’s possible, and the FBI or the local police could know something we don’t.”

What Paul hadn’t said was as significant as what he had. “You didn’t notify the OSI then—when you and Maggie were attacked?”

“Maggie was the target. I was collateral damage, so no. There was no reason to contact them. But that’s beside the point. I couldn’t protect her alone and—”

“This is why you don’t date much,” Delia interrupted.

The topic shift seemed to surprise him. “I see who I want when I want.”

“But you don’t date because you don’t want to put anyone else in jeopardy.” Finally their relationship made sense. He spent time with Della because they weren’t dating. She was safe.

Except that, while their relationship had started out that way, now everyone thought they were dating no matter what they said.

So why hadn’t he stopped spending so much time with her?

She’d have to think about that. Right now she just wished the idea of them being more than friends didn’t thrill her or make her heart flutter and her breath hitch. But it did, and that terrified her.

“Look, all I’m saying is we need help. This is complicated. Until we can prove who the stalker is, we need to keep an open mind. He could be anyone.”

“I hear you, but I have to say that this is too much like Dawson for me to really believe it’s anyone else.”

Paul lifted her hands, pressed them to his cheek. “And I can’t dismiss that Gary Crawford could have found out what happened to Danny and is using it to get to me through you. I survived his attack, and he hates loose ends.” Fear flashed through Paul’s eyes. “I’m afraid—”

“He’ll kill me to hurt you,” she interjected. “I understand.” She slid off the porch step, stood up and then moved away from him so she could think beyond the feel of his work-roughened hands on her face. “Did your guy stalk his victims?”

“Yes.” Paul leaned forward, spread his feet and laced his fingers at his knees. “And he’s very good.” He looked up at her. “Whoever sent this package—Dawson, Crawford, some crazy copycat—he’s dangerous and smart. We need help to stop him before he hurts you.”

“I’m not opposed to help. I am opposed to going through normal channels for it.” Her chest went tight. “You have to understand, Paul.” It took all she had to meet his gaze. “I’ve got so little left. Going through normal channels, I could lose it all and gain nothing.”

Anguish crossed his face. “But, Della—”

“No. We need help. I get it. But we’re going to get it my way.” She took his phone and keyed in her boss’s number. “I hate my way, but things are what they are. I have no choice.”

He dragged a frustrated hand through his wind-tossed hair. “What is it you hate—exactly?”

“Bringing my dirty laundry to work.” Della stared into his eyes, motioning for him to scoot over on the step and make room for her. “Madison, it’s Della.” She sat down beside him. Sounds of the party flooded in the background. “Can you hear me?”

“Barely. The diehards are still going strong here, as you can tell.” Madison laughed, soft and melodic. “Let me get somewhere quiet. Just a sec.” A brief pause and then she returned. The background noise faded. “What’s up?”

No sense in sugarcoating it. “I’m in trouble and I need your help.”

“Can we handle it, or should I summon the troops?”

Paul apparently could hear every word. “Tell her to summon the troops. If this is Crawford, we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“I heard him,” Madison said. “That’s Paul and he said Crawford. As in Gary Crawford?”

“It is, and he did, but we don’t know if Crawford is involved. It could be someone else.” She’d explain in person.

“Either way, Paul sounds worried.”

So, too, did Madison. “He is.” Della held Paul’s gaze. Beyond worried. Guilty. Sick inside that maybe he had led Crawford to put a target on her back. Understanding all too well that displaced guilt felt as real as earned guilt, she clasped his hand.

“I take it he’ll be with you, then?”

“He will.” It’d take an earthquake or a brick of C-4 explosives to hold him back—if Della wanted to and, honestly speaking, she didn’t.

“All right. Be safe on your way in. People are still dancing in the street. The mayor said this is the biggest festival crowd he’s seen in thirty years. We’ll be waiting for you in the conference room.”

“Thanks, Madison.” Della ended the call, locked up the cottage and then returned to Paul on the porch.

“You’ve been crying.”

She hadn’t been. But walking into her home had put her in a cold sweat. “You know I don’t cry anymore.”

“But you’re upset.”

“I am.” She rubbed her arms. “Wondering what he touched.” She shook. “Everything looks fine, but I still feel as if I need a bath.”

“That’s normal.”

“I know. But I still hate it.”

He opened the SUV door. She slid inside, onto the buttery-soft leather seat. “I hope you’re wrong. Dawson’s bad enough, but he’s sick. Crawford is...”

“A monster who likes to kill.” Paul’s eyes burned with worry, guilt and now regret. “Della, if I’ve put you on his radar—”

“Don’t go there. We don’t know, but we are where we are. At least we’ve got each other.” She buckled her safety belt. “Can you get me a dossier on Crawford, just in case?” She honestly didn’t believe he was involved. This smacked of Leo Dawson, but it’d make Paul feel better if she weighed in his concerns.

“It’s waiting for you. I emailed it while you were locking up the cottage.” Paul put the gearshift in Reverse and then backed out of the cottage’s driveway.