“Are you going to make me forget?” He asks, his chest expanding and contracting faster as I trace his ear with my mouth and press my hips against his.
“I’ll wipe your mind clean, baby. Come on.”
Gavin follows me inside without saying another word.
76
Gavin
“Okay… Email me the info… I know you can, just do it!”
I can only hear Mitch’s clipped and short responses on his side of the phone conversation, but it’s easy to figure out that he’s eager and irritated at the same time.
“Right… That’s the one… Thanks, Van Zandt.”
He disconnects the call, a spark of excitement in those grey eyes. I smirk, waiting for Mitch to realize that I’m standing next to him.
“What?” Mitch asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Are you going to share what has you looking like a kid on Christmas morning?”
Mitch laughs. “They executed the warrant on the apartment your dad visited. Troy Wolski’s apartment. They’re taking his computers to the local FBI office.” He grabs me, nearly tackling me to the ground. I stumble and somehow manage to stay on my feet as Mitch squeezes the heck out of me.
“Jeez! You’re going to break me!” I’m not really mad. Mitch’s enthusiasm is contagious. I can’t help but laugh along with him.
“I have to go,” he says when he finally releases me.
“What? No! Why?” My mind is catapulted from joy to terror in half a second.
“Babe, don’t freak out.” Mitch takes my hands and drops a kiss on my knuckles. For some reason, that pisses me off even more.
I tear my hands from his grasp. “I’m not a fucking chick that needs coddling, Mitch! Tell me what the hell is going on!”
Mitch backs up a step. “Jesus, Gavin.” His face looks like I just slapped him. “I need my computers. I don’t want you going over there. That asshole already broke into my house once. There’s no way I’m having you anywhere near him.”
I get right up in his face. “So I have to be locked up in my tower while you’re out slaying dragons? Is that it?”
“No! It’s not like that at all,” Mitch explains.
“Who’s going to watch out for you? You’re the one he shot! Your house is the one he destroyed!” My anger is growing exponentially, merely a cover for the real reason I’m upset. Fear. Fear that Mitch will be taken from me, permanently this time.
“I’m sorry, Gavin. You’re right. I’ll take one of the guards, okay?”
I blink. Shocked that he submitted so quickly. The wind goes right out of my sails. “Oh. Well, okay then.”
Three hours later I’ve paced a hole in the hardwoods and another on the deck. I thought I’d be alright with being away from Mitch for a while, but clearly I’m not.
Jesus, I have issues. My life is so fucked up I can’t wrap my mind around all of it. How can I fall in love with all of this shit going on? Yet the thought of Mitch still makes me smile in spite of the chaos. He’s the one good thing to come out of this.
My hand itches to call Mitch, but I don’t want to interrupt. All it will do is slow him down, which means it will take longer for him to get back home. Home. Is this home? Would Mitch want to live here with me?
I shake my head. I can’t be jumping so far off course. First, we need to deal with my dad and Troy Wolski before I can even think about living arrangements.
I wish Hawke or Ellie were here with me. It wouldn’t be right to put them in danger, however small the chance is that the bastard can get past the team of guards around the house. Stopping my racing thoughts for a second, I drop into a deck chair to stare up at the sky.
It’s dusk. The end of another day, and the sunset is breathtaking over the Pacific. Maybe seeing it every day has spoiled me, or maybe tonight’s slashes of orange and purple and gold are more vibrant than usual. I don’t know which it is, but for the next twenty minutes, I’m mesmerized by the swirls of color as they become muted and fade into the deep bluish-black of the night sky.
“Mr. Walker?” I look over my shoulder to see one of the guards leaning out the back door, holding up my cell phone. “Sorry to intrude, but this keeps—”
The loud cadence of Weezer blares from the device in the man’s beefy hand. His eyes pop and I burst out laughing. “Sorry, man. I loved them as a kid. Played it all the time to piss off my dad.”
He hands me the phone and disappears back into the house, leaving me alone (well, alone minus the Bigfoot who is standing guard on the deck with me) to answer the call. I don’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Gavin? It’s Sasha.”
My heart flutters nervously. Why is Sasha calling and not Mitch? “What’s going on? Why isn’t Mitch calling?”
“There’s been another murder by our serial killer.” She drops the bomb on me without hesitation or compassion.
“What?” I bolt upright, leaping to my feet. “You mean Wolski?”
“If they turn out to be one and the same, then yes,” she confirms, her tone still professional and cold.
“What aren’t you telling me, Sasha?” My hand plunges into my pocket, desperate for the soothing feel of my talisman. “Fuck!” The curse spills out of my mouth when I remember that I handed it to Mitch as he left the house.
“Take this with you.” I press the stone into Mitch’s palm as he opens the front door.
He curls my fingers back around it, pushing my fist back towards me. “No, Gavin. You need it.”
“Please, take it. I… it sounds stupid but it will feel like part of me is with you if you have it,” I explain. “You can give it back to me later.”
Mitch’s eyes mist over. He nods almost imperceptibly. “Okay.” I hand it to him, letting my fingers trace over his palm as I release the charm. “Thank you.” Mitch kisses me sweetly, holding the stone against my cheek as he frames my face with his hands.
“Be safe, Utah,” I rasp, my voice wavering.
“Love you, Gav.” Mitch gives me one more small kiss before backing up and walking outside.
My vision blurs as I watch him leave, one of the guards getting into the passenger side of his car. As they pull out of the driveway, a dark cloud surrounds me, bringing menacing images of death and pain. Silently, I pray that this isn’t the last time I’ll ever see the man I love.
“Gavin, stay calm.” Sasha snaps me out of my memory.
“Calm? Tell me why the hell Mitch isn’t calling me himself?” My stomach cramps and I nearly pass out when every drop of blood in my body drains into my toes. “It’s not… he’s not… oh god, Sasha. Mitch isn’t the victim, is he?”
“Oh no, Gavin! No! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you like that.” Sasha sounds genuinely concerned. Her FBI persona cracks for a second, letting me see the human side.
“Fuck. You just took a year off my life.” I run a hand through my hair and realize my forehead is slick with sweat.
“I’m sorry. No, that’s not why I’m calling.”
My poor heart thuds behind my ribcage, waiting for the axe to drop. “Then why?”
She sighs. “Mitch went to the crime scene.”
“What?” The ominous feeling from earlier today shrouds me, dropping down like a thick fog, suffocating, weighing down on my shoulders. I collapse to my knees, not caring that the hard wood slats of the deck bruise and splinter my flesh. It’s a preferable pain to the splintering of my heart.
“I told him not to, but he’s meeting Van Zandt and Halifax at the scene,” Sasha explains.
That selfish asshole! He gave no thought to how I would feel at his recklessness, that I would worry and lose my mind while he’s off getting cozy with a psycho.
My head spins and I have to thrust out a hand to stop from falling forward onto my face.
“I-I have to go,” I stammer, ending the call before Sasha can say another word.
Fuck him if he thinks he can do this without me. Fucking Mitch and his goddamn
irresponsible behavior! I shouldn’t let my emotions take charge. My rational side is begging me to stop, but I refuse to listen. Clambering to my feet, I head up to my bedroom, grab my laptop, and furiously start typing.
Fucking Johnny Utah. I’ll show him that I’m no damsel in distress.
Mitch
I accept the cup of burnt smelling coffee from the uniformed cop and take a sip of the bitter liquid. “Thanks.”
It’s awful, but beggars can’t be choosers, and at three in the morning at a gruesome crime scene, I’ll take what I can get.
“How did you get inside the tape,” he asks, frowning when he tastes his own cup of coffee.
“Professional courtesy.” When the cop continues staring, I elaborate. “Former Fed. Used to be on a serial killer task force. This homicide involves a client of mine.”
He nods. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
It takes a massive amount of concentration to keep from flinching back at the man’s question. No doubt he’s seen me in the tabloids or on T.V. with Gavin. “No,” I reply. “I doubt it.”
Naturally, that’s when the reporters huddled along the yellow crime scene tape spot me and go crazy, busting my lie.
“Mitch!”
“Mitch Hale! Where’s Gavin?”
“Is Gavin Walker the body you found?”
“Did the stalker kill someone?”
“Where’s Gavin?”
The cop smirks at me after listening to the inane questions, certainly able to place my name and face after that display.
Van Zandt emerges from the damp alley between a Chinese restaurant and a tiny grocery store in West Hollywood, snapping off his latex gloves. “Same guy,” he confirms, ignoring the continued shouts from the media. “Same victim type, same finger missing, same cause of death most likely, but we’ll have to wait for the M.E. to confirm.”
“What’s the cause of death?” I ask. I did hours of research on the serial killings and the suspect before receiving the call from Sasha that there was a body found. Not once did it mention how the victims died.
Van Zandt glances at the cop, glaring until the man walks away. “This is inside info, Hale. Only the bureau knows the COD on the vics.”
“I won’t say anything, Lex. You know me.” He doesn’t really, but he has to know I’m not looking for publicity on this case.
“They’ve all had their windpipes crushed,” he explains. “Someone most likely came from behind, put an arm around their throat, and squeezed until they died.”
“That takes an enormous amount of strength, Lex.” I’m shocked. Someone who uses a knife to sever a digit uses suffocation to kill? “Why not use the knife? Stab them or cut their throat?”
“My instincts are that he wants the scene as quiet and clean as possible. Blood is messy and leaves traces.” He shrugs. “Crushing the windpipe means no screaming, no noise, no mess.”
I dump the heinous coffee on the ground and crumple the cup in my hand. “But the victim would fight back, scratch the killer’s hands and arms, leaving DNA behind.”
Van Zandt shakes his head. “No. None. He must be completely covered up.”
“Jesus.” That means this is a trained individual. And smart. And not impulsive, which will make him harder to catch. More importantly, he matches the profile of Troy Wolski, the man who owns the apartment that Gavin’s father visited. We most likely have our man.
“I know,” Van Zandt agrees as if hearing my thoughts. “Nothing is done without reason,” he says.
“How long has it been since the last kill?” I ask, already knowing the answer from my research.
“When you received the finger,” he confirms.
“Dallas,” I murmur.
“Yes.”
“And you found the body that goes with the finger in Dallas as well.” I’m merely speaking out loud as I put the pieces together.
“Correct. And we linked kills to multiple other stops on Gavin’s travel schedule, going pretty far back. Wolski has taken no commercial airline flights to any of the cities where victims were found. The other team is still at the suspects home right now, executing the search warrant.”
My mouth falls open. “So this guy has been driving to all of these places? Following Gavin and killing people in different cities?”
“Appears so. We didn’t understand the pattern in the locations until that finger showed up in Mr. Walker’s dressing room. We probably never would have figured it out,” Van Zandt admits.
“But you said he’s careful and deliberate. So why help the authorities connect his kills to Gavin?”
“That, my friend, is the million dollar question.”
I stare at Van Zandt and smirk. “So, we just have to find the right person to ask.”
77
Gavin
My yeti companion pulls my SUV up in front of Dad’s hideous house, the light of dawn barely hinting at its arrival in the sky. Mitch never returned last night, probably still at the crime scene he wasn’t supposed to be at because he promised to be safe and to come home as soon as possible.
I scowl at the thought. He did eventually call, but being the brat that I’m always denying that I am, I ignored it, too pissed off to speak to Mitch. For the tenth time, I replay the message he left, listening to how exhausted he sounds.
Hey baby. I’m so sorry I didn’t call until now. I spent hours in my office and didn’t even realize how late it was until Sasha called to tell me they found another victim of this sicko.
Anyway, you’re probably asleep now (I wasn’t) and are angry with me (I was), so I’ll see you in the morning when I get done here at the scene.
Love you.
Another pang of guilt hits me. Mitch will be so mad when he finds out what I’m doing. But this is something I need to do alone. I have to face my father and find out why. Why he would send this sick man after me. Why he hates me so much he’d rather put a target on my back than admit that I’m gay.
At least I brought Bigfoot here with me. It had crossed my mind to sneak out alone. Then I thought about how furious I would be if Mitch pulled a stunt like that and decided against it.
“Wait here,” I tell the guard. “I’m sure I won’t be long, if he even opens the door.”
“Yes sir.” Bigfoot turns off the SUV and gets out of the vehicle.
I scowl. “Aren’t you going to wait here?”
“I’ll wait next to the vehicle, sir. It’s too easy for someone to sneak up on you if you’re inside a car. Plus,” he jams a thumb at my Range Rover. “Those expensive ones are soundproof and I want to hear and see everything around me.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Whatever.”
The big man leans against the Rover, his eyes alert and constantly scanning his surroundings. Satisfied he won’t follow me, I head up the long walkway to the front door. The sound of those damn pretentious chimes float through the thick panel of wood.
I don’t know that I actually expected my father to be home, let alone answer the door himself. So when the oversized, decorative door swings open, I’m shocked.
Apparently, so is my dad.
“Gavin?” His blue eyes bulge and his ruddy face blanches. “W-what are you doing here?” He closes the door until I can only see a small sliver of his body.
The anger I’ve kept inside for ten years grows, tearing and clawing to be let out. My hand darts out, shoving the door back and sending my father stumbling inside.
“Dad,” I sneer. “I’m here to have some good old father-son bonding.”
My father leaps forward, attempting to herd me back outside. “No. It isn’t a good time for me. You’ll have to come back later.”
“Fuck you!” I jam a finger into his chest. “I want some answers and I’m not leaving until I get them.”
A soft click from somewhere over my left shoulder tears my attention from the weak old man in front of me.
“Shut the door, Denny. I think it’s high time the boy gets some answers.” I have no idea
what the man looks like who’s speaking, because all I see is the barrel of his massive gun, pointed directly between my eyes.
My dad must comply because the door closes with a fateful thump.
“Troy, don’t,” my dad pleads with the gunman, holding his hands up. “Leave him out of this.”
Troy. My heart spasms. Troy Wolski.
The man growls, a truly frightening sound, never dropping the gun or wavering a single inch. “You brought him into this Denny, not me! You’re the one who wanted him scared so far back in the closet that he’d never see the light of day!”
Denny?
“So you did start this,” I accuse, glancing at my dad out of the corner of my eye.
The man laughs. “Of course he did! Get over here,” he points the gun at the couch. “Sit down, both of you.”
Slowly, we both move towards the long sectional. I sit carefully, my eyes glued to the black handgun. After we’re both seated, the man tucks the gun in his waistband.
He’s disarming himself? I’m getting the fuck out of here. My mind goes over all of the different ways to attack this psycho and put him on his knees.
“Don’t.” My dad’s hand lands on my arm at the same time he speaks. “He doesn’t need a weapon to kill you.”
I must look confused, because the man chuckles, a deep, ominous sound that reverberates from his chest.
“He’s right. Former Special Ops. Marine Corps Amphibious Recon to be exact.”
I stare at the man called Troy. What I couldn’t see with a gun in my face, I can see now. The man isn’t very tall, maybe a few inches under six feet, but he’s bulky. All muscle and power, thickened across the shoulders and neck. His thighs are huge under his black cargo pants and his biceps bulge at the hem of his short-sleeved T-shirt.
The salt and pepper, short high and tight military haircut would be a dead giveaway of the man’s background. It’s exactly how my dad’s used to be until he grew it out for a more Hollywood friendly, less intimidating style. Troy is powerful and well trained, for sure, but it’s the man’s eyes that send chills down my spine.