скачать книгу бесплатно
Luke still had dreams about her.
And Bobby continued to draw strength from the living warmth of their son. He liked to believe Amanda remained with them. She’d been his angel on earth, and it wasn’t such a far cry to think that she was watching over them from the heavenly place she inhabited now.
He rocked Luke for the few minutes it took to get the little boy back to sleep and then, with a gentle kiss on his son’s forehead, he laid him in his crib again, checking the monitor to make sure he’d hear any sounds coming from the boy’s room during the rest of the night.
Amanda had insisted on the monitor when Luke was born. And now it gave Bobby great security. He’d die if he lost Luke, too.
Back in his room, Bobby sat propped against the pillows, staring out into the darkness. Some days he was too busy, too filled with the intensity of his work, to think about Amanda much. But on nights like this, the pain of her loss was almost debilitating.
Doing what he’d learned to do at a very young age, Bobby endured as much of the pain as he could, then traveled to other places in his mind, focused on things that felt good. Positive things.
He immediately thought of Tony Littleton. His young college-age friend, a new convert the year before, had left his mother’s home the previous summer and moved in with Bobby, helping him care for Luke. He’d also proven to be a loyal and trusted brother of the Ivory Nation.
Tony was in Tucson, at the University of Arizona, where he was being mentored by an influential Ivory Nation brother and studying political science at Bobby’s behest, but he still made it home most weekends. Which meant he’d be there by dinnertime the following day.
Bobby couldn’t wait that long.
Picking up the phone, he dialed Tony’s cell, knowing the boy slept with it right beside him for occasions like this. A true and loyal brother.
The phone rang. And rang. And rang again. Where the hell was Tony at 2:36 in the morning?
For a moment, as Tony’s voice mail picked up, Bobby felt the blood drain from his face. Another car accident. Could God be so cruel?
And then a conversation he’d had with Tony the weekend before sprang to mind and Bobby smiled. There was a girl on campus Tony had the hots for. A beautiful white daughter of wealthy Republican parents. Replaying the advice he’d given his dedicated recruit, Bobby had no doubt where Tony was tonight.
And he looked forward to the next evening, after Luke was down for the night, when he’d hear all the details.
Please God, let a baby be made tonight. A white baby boy…
Thursday, June 7, 2:37 a.m.
Tucson, Arizona
Jerking his head against the gloved hand at his neck and the other buried in his hair, Harry closed his eyes. They could force him to sit there, to hear, to face the bed where his shy, beautiful wife lay, her gown up around her ribs, but they couldn’t force him to watch.
Laura’s muffled shriek tore through him and his eyes flew open, quickly adjusting to the dark. To the shadows. The man who’d originally captured Harry was between his wife’s knees, pumping frantically in and out. The man’s hands were in Laura’s long blond hair.
Her face was turned away.
Stay sane, he told himself. Over and over.
Get evidence.
He tried to focus his mind in a way that could help him. But his head hurt so much he couldn’t think straight, his entire being consumed by a rage he couldn’t control.
There were two dark, mostly indistinguishable hooded shapes. One with his wife. The other, shorter one, stood behind him, hands hotly gripping the sides of Harry’s face.
The man raping Laura was white. His penis was the only flesh showing but even in the shadows, Harry could tell. He couldn’t get beyond the vision of what it was doing to his wife.
He hollered, in spite of the gag in his mouth, needing Laura to know he was there, alive, loving her.
With another jerk of his head, he managed to get a gloved finger in his mouth, bit hard. The man behind him didn’t even seem to notice.
His original captor slowed and Harry held his breath.
Please God, let them be done. Take them away from my wife, from my home.
Still inside Laura, the man lifted a hand, slid it beneath her gown and grabbed her breast.
Harry saw her body lurch. Laura’s injured cry was the only sound in the room—other than the ugly slamming of the rapist’s flesh against hers. Harry watched as the man further exposed his wife’s glistening white skin and tears pooled in his eyes.
Trying to swallow, he choked. His jailor’s grip didn’t loosen.
The man on top of his wife shuddered, jerked a couple of times. There was no huge sigh, no taunts or threats or gloats of victory, no sound at all to accompany the dirty releasing of fluid inside Harry’s wife.
Sliding away from Laura, leaving her body exposed to the air-conditioned room, the man zipped his fly and Harry got a smidgeon of satisfaction when the bastard bit back a low curse as, with gloved fingers and haste, he caught his still-engorged penis in the zipper.
Harry hoped he’d drawn blood.
Other than his original grunt of pain, the taller intruder hardly seemed to notice what he’d done to himself as he walked behind Harry, placing his hands, like a vice, at the base of Harry’s neck and around his jawbone. He was the stronger of the two. And all business.
And when he felt those hands settle on him, Harry knew they weren’t finished yet. Laura legs were crossed, her hands tied at the wrists and fastened to one bedpost. Still facing the wall, she was sobbing. He could see the shudders wracking her slim body.
The smaller man approached her slowly. His hands together at the waistband of his pants, the bastard left no doubt about what he was going to do.
A little more tentative than his partner, he pulled down his zipper, his hard white cock falling out. Laura locked her ankles together when he tried to spread her knees. The man hesitated and from behind him Harry heard a whisper. Something about white, he thought, but couldn’t be certain, not with the roaring in his ears.
That communication changed the smaller man’s bearing completely. With more force than the first intruder had used, he pried Laura’s legs apart. Not glancing, even for a second, toward her face, he stared at her crotch, touched it with a gloved hand. He seemed to like it when she jerked back as far as her constraints would allow. And then, without further warning, he plunged inside her.
Afraid he was going to have a heart attack before he could get to his wife, Harry sat there, trying to ignore the heavy pounding in his chest, tasting blood and bile on his tongue. And leather. Holding the piece of glove he’d bitten off inside his mouth, Harry promised himself they’d get these guys.
And make them pay for what they were doing to Laura. Make them pay and pay and pay.
Her left breast was exposed, and he focused on that, so vulnerable and so sweet.
The smaller man drew out once and plunged back in, and Harry prayed that Laura could last through another onslaught. Then, before the thought was even coherent, the man had shuddered. And pulled out.
It occurred to Harry that now was the time to fear most. Either they were going to torture Laura or him or…what? Did he really expect them to let him and Laura live?
For what purpose?
The smaller man softly repeated the words Harry’s guard had issued earlier. White stays with white. Laura didn’t show any reaction, any sense that she’d been spoken to.
But then, Harry could only imagine the hell his wife must be occupying.
Maybe it would be better if the rapists simply killed them. At this point death almost seemed a mercy.
He grunted a fierce warning, because he couldn’t sit there complacently, just accepting what the bastards had done. The grip on his neck tightened and Harry’s head swam with blackness.
Were they going to finish with Laura after they broke his neck? He couldn’t leave her to them…
Harry’s flesh cooled, the red behind his eyes dissipating, before he realized that the gloved fingers around his neck were gone. He opened his eyes.
He and Laura were alone.
She’d twisted herself around until her lower body was under the covers. Her body shook with sobs.
Tears blinding him, pain in his nose and head and shoulder keeping him sane, Harry threw himself upward and over, hopping the chair inch by inch toward the bedpost where they’d tied Laura’s hands. And half an hour later, with his back to the post, using the numbed tips of his fingers, he had unfastened the ropes, sickened by the wetness he felt.
Blood? Or sweat?
Laura grunted, a deep, unfeminine sound that he couldn’t decipher. But in seconds she was at his wrists, releasing them. He went for his gag next.
“Oh, my love, I’m so sorry,” he said even before he’d untied his feet and faced her.
He assumed she’d untied her own gag as well. He couldn’t be sure. She didn’t say a word. And didn’t stick around for anything else he might have said or done.
Before he’d freed one ankle, Harry heard the bathroom door behind him slam.
And lock.
2
S he had to get them off her. Now. Away. Off her. Gone.
Hearing nothing except the internal voice hollering for cleanliness, Laura ripped at her gown. Her arms were weak, her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t grip. Pinching the fabric between her fingers she pulled, pinched and pulled, but she couldn’t get free.
Get this off me!
Her mind wouldn’t quiet yet couldn’t help.
With tears running off her chin, she stomped her feet, pulling at the garment. Trying to see, to focus on what she was doing.
Pinch and pull. Pinch and pull. And then, almost miraculously, she managed to get a handful of the thin cotton in one fist.
No! Get off me!
Clutching the material, Laura ripped for all she was worth. And stumbling, falling against the counter, she climbed through the tear she’d made down the middle of the gown, leaving the offensive material in a pool on the floor. The blurred image swam before her, blending with the light beige and blue of the tile. It couldn’t stay there.
Couldn’t stain her space with its filth. And she couldn’t touch it again. The disease it carried would crawl through her fingertips, up her arm and, like a spike of poison, slice straight through her heart.
The fuzziness in her mind, the haze surrounding her, enclosing her, allowed only one image at a time to intrude. And her focus was one-hundred percent on that image. The shard of poison—she could see it piercing her heart. Could feel it.
And do nothing.
Then she recognized the gown again. In a heap on the floor. Inches from her bare feet.
Feet that had touched dirt many times. All those summer days she’d walked barefoot as a kid. As she envisioned her toes sliding toward the gown, picking it up, dropping it in the plastic-lined trash can by the toilet, she thought she could do it.
Laura had no idea how long she stood there before she moved. And when she did, she caught a glimpse of her body in the mirror.
She was completely naked. Exposed. Her breast was discolored.
With a shriek, she grabbed a fistful of toilet paper. Using it, she picked up the gown, tossed it in the toilet, flushed and waited. It didn’t go all the way down. She flushed again.
And when the toilet water started to rise, she kicked at the handle behind the seat until it shut off, stopping all flow inside the tank.
The gown floated uselessly in the bowl, half down the drain, captive. It was sewage now.
As quickly as she could, Laura slammed the seat down.
Detective Daniel Boyd stared at his computer screen at the Tucson precinct, thinking about the cinnamon twist Danish he was going to get out of the machine just as soon as he’d finished checking the next hundred names and times and phone numbers on his list. He was looking for a call made from a cell phone in Tucson at the same time as one made from a phone booth in Phoenix. He could be home in bed. His shift had long since ended.
But if he didn’t get this done tonight, he’d have to do it in the morning. And the work was boring as hell.
It also was going to point him to Sherry O’Connor’s rapist—before that vile excuse for a human being struck again. The Phoenix cops had caught his counterpart that afternoon—a wimp who’d blabbed like a baby as soon as they’d brought him in, telling how the two men who’d never met had called a third, the coordinator, who’d arranged it so they’d both be raping teenage girls at the same time. They’d all connected through the Internet, the third man offering to set up time, place and opportunity in exchange for detailed accounts. It got the rapists off, knowing they were both doing it at once.
Sick. Sick. Sick.
Too bad their Phoenix perp hadn’t known the name of his Tucson partner in crime. Phoenix police were still trying to trace the coordinator.
And that was for them to handle. Daniel had Sherry O’Connor’s rapist to worry about. As soon as he put a name to the number and time, he’d have his man.
“Go home, Boyd, it’s three in the morning.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Slouched in his chair, he didn’t even look up as Robert Miller, a twenty-year veteran officer and Daniel’s partner for the past five, walked by. God knew, Miller wouldn’t work an extra minute if it was up to him. They’d just come in from a desert crime scene—a young boy whose body had begun to decompose, but luckily for forensic purposes, hadn’t been found by coyotes. From an old break in the jawbone, they’d been able to tentatively identify the remains as those of Matthew Frazier, a twelve-year-old who’d gone missing four months earlier on his way home from school. Just hours afterward, they’d found the boy’s pants in some bushes about a mile from his home. They were stained with semen from two different men—which made it Daniel and Robert’s case.
He’d track down the bastard responsible for the boy’s death now that he had a body—concrete evidence. He couldn’t save the life.
But this one…
Even after five years in the sex crimes bureau, Daniel couldn’t just go home and rest when he was close to solving a case. Taking a break might mean the difference between a young woman living with strength and confidence—and one constantly having to fight fear and panic to recover the slightest hint of peace.
As always, memories of Sheila, or at least an awareness of those memories, kept him awake and working, even if that meant missing a night’s sleep. He rarely thought consciously about his older sister. Couldn’t allow himself to get that close. But history had taught him that this near the end of a case, he’d miss his sleep one way or another—either working though the long night hours or lying alone in the dark, remembering.
Daniel’s phone rang. There’d been another rape. Grabbing his jacket, Daniel called out to his partner who was just leaving, dispatched a forensics team to the crime scene and headed for the hospital.
“Laura! Honey! Open the door!” Harry rattled the doorknob, overwhelmed by helplessness. “Please?”
Wiping dried blood from his nose, which he figured probably wasn’t broken, he stared at the door separating him from his wife. “Laura?”
Getting the same response he’d been receiving for the past five minutes—none—Harry slumped his good shoulder against the frame, his swollen face an inch from the jamb.
He could hear movement, the toilet flushing, sniffling.
“Honey?” Shaking with the need to get to her, Harry tried not to feel the throbbing in his face and head.
“Laura? Don’t shower. We have to get you to a doctor, baby.”
