CHAPTER THIRTY

 

 

She awoke in pain. All along her right side, part of her head then down to her leg felt like fire.

Her eyelids fluttered. She supposed pain was good. In a way at least. Pain meant she was still alive.

As she blinked, exhaling shakily, she spotted Agent Sawyer sitting in a wheelchair by her bed. She blinked again, wincing, moving a bit, but then freezing in agony. She went very still.

Agent Sawyer was watching her. His eyes were fixed on her face. And even when he realized she was waking, he didn't look away.

She groaned but felt her throat gasp with the sound. Her eyes were sore too.

She blinked against the dim light in the small hospital room. A floor-to-ceiling window displayed a parking lot far below them. The beeping machines, and multiple empty cots suggested she found herself in one of the long-term units at the hospital.

Sawyer had a bandage around his head. He also had another bandage wrapped over his shoulder. Other than that, he was bare chested. Ilse blinked again, trying not to admire the taut muscles along the scarred chest of her partner. Sawyer didn't seem to notice her attention. He continued to watch her, but it was as if he couldn't quite see her. As if he had been sitting in that position for a long time.

"Hello," she said, her voice rasping.

She thought of the killer. The Icicle killer. He'd been waiting in ambush. She should have thought it through. Should have been more careful but she'd walked right into his hands.

Now, facing Sawyer all she really felt was guilt.

"You're okay," Sawyer said suddenly, his eyes narrowing, his attention fixated on her once more.

"Trying my best," she replied, wincing.

If they were in the hospital, and Sawyer was still alive, that meant she'd done her job. She'd helped them get free in time.

As her consciousness roused, part of her emotions also came into focus. Her sheer relief at seeing Sawyer alive. A lump formed in her throat as she took in his head bandage and the gauze around his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" she said desperately.

He didn't take long to respond. He shrugged once and nodded. As his head moved, he winced. Sawyer had stitches along his cheek, and Ilse could see more stitches along his collarbone beneath the bandage from where he'd been stabbed.

"Alexandra?" she said desperately.

"Alive," Sawyer croaked back. "Barely. But she made it."

Ilse's head flopped back against her pillow, and she let out a long sigh of relief, which halfway through turned into a sob. Her shoulders shook. Her eyes watered. But no sounds came. She wanted to cry, but it was as if her body rebelled.

At least Alexandra was safe. At least there was that.

"Was anyone else hurt?" Ilse said, gasping as she stared at the ceiling of the hospital room now. A metal box protruding from the wall above her displayed a serial number painted on the bottom. She stared at it, studying the numbers, finding a sort of solace in the thoughtless activity.

Sawyer just cleared his throat. Finally, with another groan, she propped up on the hospital bed. She stared at Sawyer in his wheelchair, and he stared back.

"Anyone else in the building?" Ilse murmured, wincing.

But he just shook his head once. "Everyone made it. The building didn't. It went up in flames. But none of the other renters were hurt."

"You're alive," she said at last. It felt good to speak it out loud. The two of them were alone in the hospital room. Both of them looking far the worse for wear. There was no sign of other agents. No sign of a doctor. Just the two of them for the moment. Ilse could feel relief. Sadness. Fear.

"I tried calling you," she said, her voice still hoarse. “But I could tell something was wrong. I got there as quickly as I could."

"Me too," Sawyer replied. He swallowed once. He was staring at her, haunted again. The same sort of look he'd had in his eyes before.

Ilse wanted to look away. Something about his gaze felt indecent, naked almost. 

"He was already there," she said softly. "He already had her in the bathtub. You came in so fast; I didn't have time to warn you. There was a tripwire."

"So that's what it was."

"Not just that. It was attached to a trigger. It cut her wrists. He wanted me to do it for him. There was a dog there too."

"A what?"

"It's not important. He had a knife, but I lost my gun and I didn't know what to do."

"I should have been more careful," Sawyer murmured. "It's my fault. I was too reckless. He got the better of me."

Ilse didn't want to comment on this. He had been reckless. But so had she. Both of them. She knew why she had charged the apartment. It was personal. The killer had taken out two of her clients. But what had propelled Sawyer so rapidly through that door? Why had he been like a bat out of hell?

She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

"At least he's dead," Ilse murmured. "He blew himself up."

But Sawyer was shaking his head. She stared, her mouth dry.

"You're probably right, but they didn't find a body," Sawyer murmured.

A slow chill crept up Ilse's spine. Her fingers tingled. "Are you sure?"

He nodded grimly. He winced again and went still. "I'm sure it's nothing. I've seen plenty of fires, and with extreme ones, they can eat up almost anything."

"No body?"

“Mhmm. There were plenty of witnesses around the building, though. No one described a fleeing or injured man. Only a heroic woman." He said this last part staring at her. His green eyes had a haunted look. He was watching her as if seeing her in a new light.

Ilse wasn't sure she liked the glint in his eyes. Sawyer usually pretended he didn't have emotions. He didn't like displaying them. But now, sitting in that wheelchair, bandaged, with stitches visible just past the edge of his jaws, his muscles pronounced, scars crisscrossing, Ilse was the one who felt vulnerable.

She looked away. There was more pain along her side than she wanted to admit. But also, a low, chilling sensation was spreading up her spine.

If the body was missing, had the killer escaped?

It didn't seem possible. It couldn't be. No, Sawyer must be right. His body had just burned.

She looked back to Sawyer, to realize he was still watching her. Again, his gaze had that haunted look. And again, it almost felt like he wasn't seeing her. As if she were somehow an apparition. As if he were almost looking through her.

"What?" she murmured.

Sawyer shook his head. "I've been thinking," he rasped. "While sitting next to you. I've been thinking."

"How long have you been there?"

He glanced at the clock over a monitor. He blinked and looked surprised. But then he shook his head and looked back at her. "A while," he said. "I've been thinking, though. And something came to mind."

"What?"

He stared her dead in the eyes. "How come he attacked you?"

 She winced. And then she went still. "Excuse me?" But now she was only buying time. The question was clear. It resonated. She swallowed, her throat sore. "What do you mean?"

"How come he attacked you? You must have fit the MO. He stalked you to your apartment. Why you?"

Ilse just shook her head. "Who knows why crazy people do what they do?"

"All the victims," Sawyer murmured, "all of them survived a serial killer. A name change." He kept his gaze fixed on her, like an anchor. "What haven't you been telling me?"

The trickle along her spine turned to a rod of ice. Terror flooded her. Ilse wanted to hide. She wanted to duck under her pillow and cover herself.

What was Sawyer asking? Did he even realize what he was saying? He was exhausted, injured. He wasn't thinking straight. And yet his gaze was lucid. His eyes unyielding. He fixated on her, staring.

"It only makes sense," he murmured. "You have to fit the MO."

Ilse's body shook with shock. She could feel her hands beneath the blankets trembling so badly that the rest of her burns hurt even worse.

She opened her mouth to protest, to deflect, to lie. But then she closed her lips. Did she really want to lie to Sawyer? He'd been the one who'd saved her. If he hadn't shown up when he had, the killer would have reached her... and then... it didn't bear to think what would have come next.

Now, Sawyer was looking off, just over Ilse's shoulder, out the window, his gaze tracing the dark skies beyond, fixated somewhere on the distant horizon. Again, she was struck at his posture. At the widening of his eyes. At the look in his expression. Dazed, confused.

"I should have been more careful," he said as if in a dream. “But I couldn't. Not again."

Ilse remembered the way he had tackled a suspect at the community center the previous month. Remembered how protective he'd been then. Remembered how he got around certain suspects. How he acted in school zones, around children. Around young women. He got particularly quiet. Contemplative. Throughout this case, he'd acted strangely. Especially when they'd had found those BDSM photos. He'd said something that had stuck out. Some of the pictures, he'd said, were of teenagers... It had mattered to him when he'd said it, but Ilse had chalked it up to his natural protectiveness. Now, though, he had the same vacant gaze.

The same haunted look. The same gaze as if he was seeing something no one else could.

"She was so nice," he murmured.

Ilse felt her throat constrict. She wasn't sure how to respond to that.

He didn't seem to need prompting. "The best a brother could've asked for. Kind, intelligent. Way smarter than me. She wanted to be a lawyer. She would've been. I failed."

Ilse was stunned to see tears drifting down Sawyer's cheeks. He wasn't crying. Not really. His face didn't bunch up. He didn't have an expression at all. And yet the tears seem to have found their outlet all the same. As if escaping their confines against permission. The tears traced his cheeks, one of them wobbling on the end of his chin. It dripped to the ground.

He shook his head. "I don't know what I was thinking. I wasn't paying attention. I wasn't quick enough. That's why I came in so recklessly. I couldn't lose someone else. Not again."

Again? What did he mean?

Ilse opened her mouth, sensing that perhaps she ought to say something. But at the same time, she didn't want to interrupt. Sawyer's own line of questioning had paused just so long as he spoke. And it wasn't like she was ready to answer his questions either. So she sealed her lips. She simply watched and waited.

"It was so horrible. My baby sister. Rebekah. Kinder than anyone I knew. She loved me. She was my biggest fan." He nodded simply, and Ilse realize now he wasn't wearing his baseball cap. His sandy hair was brushed haphazardly to the side.

"I'm sorry, Sawyer," Ilse said gently. What else could she say? He was clearly talking about something important to him. Someone he'd lost. A sister?

"It was a serial killer case. Aren't they all? So many monsters. So few of us to stop them. I thought I stopped him. I caught him. I caught him. I remember walking up to him. He was sitting on a park bench eating a sandwich. Taunting me. I caught him but he was taunting. And then he told me what he'd done. He told me before meeting me in that park, where he'd been," Sawyer's voice had a haunted quality. He was still staring off into the distance, still crying, though expressionless.

Ilse wanted to reach out, wanted to touch him. But at the same time, she felt sick to her stomach. Terrified at what he was saying. She wasn't sure she wanted to hear any more. Could she handle more pain? More loss? Far more grief?

"He whispered first. He made me lean in to hear. He wanted to watch my expression. He wanted me to see him smile. I nearly killed him after he told me. They had to pull me off."

Ilse stared.

"He had lured me away. That's why he wanted to meet me in the park. He was late. I thought he was going to be a no-show. But he took a detour."

"Where did he go?" Ilse's voice felt light, as if echoing.

"I don't know how he found my address. Not my address. My old address. Where my parents lived. They weren't home at the time. But my little sister was. He didn't make it quick. He took nearly an hour. He did things to her, and then recorded them on video. He made sure that I could see the video. He set up an email, and it sends the video file to me. Every year. On her birthday. I get another notification. I tried to change emails. But he had my number. I couldn't let them control my whole life. But to this day, I still get the notifications. I still get the video with its attachments. A video of him brutalizing my sister. Of all the things he did to her. Of the things he made her do and say. Vile things. Things I can't unsee. Things no one should ever have seen. Things my sister never deserved. She was so sweet. So kind."

Ilse stared, stunned, realizing her hands were trembling once again beneath the blanket. Her heart was in her throat. She wanted to stop. Wanted to lunge across the bed and snag Sawyer in an embrace. She wanted to hold him tight until the tears disappeared, hold him until night came and hid them both in darkness, covering them from danger, shielding them from harm. She wanted to make it go away, to make him feel better.

After a moment, she found that she was sitting forward, despite the pain in her side. She heard some beeping from one of the machines but ignored it. She reached out, desperate, reaching toward Sawyer's hand. She pulled it close and pressed it to her cheek. An awkward, gangly sort of gesture. Not quite a hug. Not quite anything, really. But affection. An attempt at affection. She wanted him to know he wasn't alone. She couldn't imagine the horror. Couldn't imagine what he was describing. His own sister. Killed by a man he hunted.

This was why she didn't date. It was why she didn't get close to people. Why she preferred to isolate. Why she didn't really have friends. It would put them in danger. Her own childhood had been stripped away.

Sawyer was no longer crying. His eyes were still staring off, but the tears had dried.

"It was years ago," he murmured. "But I remember it like it was yesterday. And every year I get another video. Another reminder."

Ilse just stared at him. She could feel horror. Could feel sympathy. Could feel sadness. Could see something else in those green eyes.

She reached out, holding his hand. He stared at where she had pressed it against her cheek. Then he leaned in, slowly, and kissed her on the cheek.

She sat, stunned, her face warm for entirely different reasons now.

Sawyer cleared his throat, and blinked, as if he'd been slapped, even though she hadn't moved. He gasped, and leaned back, startled as if he'd suddenly been woken from a dream. "I," he stammered. "I didn't mean. I'm sorry. That wasn't professional."

Ilse could feel her cheek tingling. Could see the shock, the confusion in his eyes, as if he couldn't quite believe what he had done.

She reached out, took his hand, and pulled him close again.

She wasn't sure if it was the pain medication or the sheer emotionality of the moment. Perhaps just simple insanity. She wasn't sure. But as she pulled him close, she didn't hesitate. She had all the excuses she needed if ever she wanted to take it back. If ever she wanted to pretend that she hadn't meant it. But in that moment, regardless of the reason, she did it. She kissed him.

It wasn't a long kiss. It wasn't without pain. She could feel it along her side. She even saw the way he winced as he tried to lean in.

But her lips touched his. And she held the kiss for a moment. He smelled of ash still. But his lips were soft. And he didn't recoil.

Strange. Somehow, she had always imagined they would.

But he didn't recoil. He didn't lash out. He didn't jerk back as if stunned. He allowed her to kiss him back, and it felt good.

Perhaps not right. Certainly not professional. In a way, even surprising. Was this how she felt about Sawyer?

What a strange thought.

She pulled back. And so did he. Now, not just her cheek, but her lips tingled as well.

For a moment, they both watched each other. Neither of them said anything. Sawyer scratched awkwardly at his chin, glanced off, but didn't leave. He remained in his wheelchair, next to her bed. She leaned back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling. She wasn't sure what she felt.

Was there a killer still out there? Had the Icicle killer survived?

At least Alexandra had. Sawyer had. She had.

She wasn't sure for a moment why she'd kissed him. But it didn't take long to realize.

He was brave. Not just physically brave. He'd come to her rescue. She knew that. But he had done that before.

No. Rather, sitting there, injured, in pain, he had spilled his guts. He had told her about the darkest part of his past.

And at the same time, while she felt admiration, she also felt a jolt of guilt.

Because she knew, if she had been given the time, the space, she wasn't at all sure she would have ever returned the favor.

Not even under questioning. Not for Sawyer. Not for anyone.

Not even Dr. Mitchell knew her past.

And to her great shame, she realized she preferred it that way. It was simpler.

She closed her eyes, pretending to sleep.

But Sawyer didn't leave. He remained there, sitting in the wheelchair, watching over her like some sort of guardian.

She couldn't tell him to go. Besides, she found she didn't mind. In a way, it was almost nice to have someone looking out for her. She'd never really had that before.