Maximum Security

“It is,” he replied calmly. “But it’s funny. You don’t look like a Mary Smythe.”

“Says you.” Her gun arm was beginning to grow tired, probably from the months—no, years now—she’d been off active duty. She tightened her grip on the Firestar, hoping he wouldn’t notice that her hands were shaking.

He shrugged, the casual gesture belying the intensity of his pale eyes as they skimmed across her face, seemingly memorizing it. “Black hair, nice tan, despite living under constant cloud cover. You look more like a Maria.”

“So my parents are Honduran. So what?”

“In fact, I’d even say you look exactly like a Magdalena. Don’t you think, Maggie Reyes?” he asked softly, pinning her with those other-worldly eyes just as surely as if he’d slammed a hand against her throat.

Maggie gasped, backing into the kitchen counter so suddenly, she felt a burst of pain as the edge jabbed into the small of her back. “How—?”

“I read all your books,” he said, anticipating her question. “Including the author bio. You were a cop for four years before you turned to crime writing full-time. You’ve written eight true crime books for a major publisher, about half of which have landed on some bestseller list somewhere. You used to have a dog named Andromeda, although I don’t see any evidence of her here. And you like surfing and any other sport connected with water.”

Maggie could only stare at him, unsure whether to be impressed or deeply frightened.

“I recognized you from the book jacket photo,” Corrigan continued. He hitched one shoulder in a singular shrug. “Nice shot. It does you justice.”

Before she could react, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, tossing it on the table so it landed with a loud smack. It fell open, the large, blue FBI at the top of the ID she’d never gotten a solid glimpse of reassuring her slightly.

“You’ll find a business card inside with Fay Parker’s name on it,” he said. “She’s the SAC of the San Francisco field office. Call her. She’ll tell you I’m legit.” Corrigan sat down and leaned back in one of her kitchen chairs, lazily stretching his lean, denim-encased legs out in front of him.

SAC. It took her a few minutes to remember that the acronym meant Special Agent in Charge. Darn, it had been a while since she’d been in the game. Maggie tore her gaze away from the man’s wallet on the table, keeping the gun between them as she tried hard to keep her fear under control. “I don’t understand what you’re doing here. If you’re assigned to the San Francisco office, why would a serial killer who, until now, has stuck to his Louisiana territory, interest you?” She braced her tiring right elbow on the Formica and shot him what she hoped was a skeptical look. “Especially if you’re in Computer Crimes. What’re you going to do if you find him—throw old motherboards at him?”

Before she could react, he sprang out of the chair and pinned her with his body against the counter. She instinctively raised her hands to protect her face, a whimper escaping her lips before she could quell it. She didn’t even notice that the Firestar was no longer in her possession until she heard the magazine clatter to the floor, soon followed by a sharp clink indicating he’d ejected the chambered round as well.

“I’ll figure something out,” he said softly, making her all too conscious of just how vulnerable she was.

“Get out,” Maggie whispered, disgusted with herself. That wouldn’t have happened to her two years ago, when she’d been in the best shape of her life—and most likely able to defend herself against the charms of a too-handsome man with scary reflexes. She swiped her hand at the empty gun he held over their heads, knowing as she did so that it was a futile gesture.

It was. Instead, Maggie contented herself with wrapping her hands under his left wrist, which was braced against the counter. With a speed that came from years of training and eighteen months with nothing better to do, she brought the arch of her foot down hard along his shin, ending the move by crunching her weight down on his instep. In the split second where Corrigan slightly lost his balance, Maggie pushed back on his wrist, ducking under his arm and finally pinning it to his back at an awkward angle.

“You like to play rough, Maggie?” he asked through gritted teeth.

Jerk. She pushed the offending limb into an even more impossible position. “Drop my gun. Drop it now, or I’ll break your arm,” she snarled.

He dropped the Firestar, but twisted out of her grasp when her attention was momentarily drawn to the fallen weapon.

“Okay,” he said, backing away from her and holding his hands out so his palms faced her. “Okay. There’s no reason to get upset. I need your help, Maggie. I swear, that’s the honest truth. I never meant to frighten you.”

“Right,” she retorted. “So your whole ‘speak softly and flash a big gun’ schtick was meant to be reassuring? Was this before or after you were going to stop impersonating an officer and tell me who you really were?”

“Maggie—”

“Stop using my name so much. You sound like a used car salesman.” She advanced toward him and nearly stepped on the Glock she’d made him discard when he first came into the kitchen. She kicked it savagely across the room, far out of reach of either of them. A strand of black hair fell across her forehead and she blew it back in a huff. “You’re not going to be in my house long enough to establish any sort of rapport with me, so get used to it.”

He stopped backing away. “I’m not lying to you now. I am with the FBI. My badge is right there. You can trust me.”

“A lot of women trusted Kenneth Bianchi, Paul Bernardo, Ted Bundy. All good-looking, charming men.” Finally next to the kitchen phone again, Maggie snatched the receiver out of its cradle. “Homicidal maniacs, the lot of them.”

“Maggie—” She cut him off with a sharp glare. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I believe you. About the Surgeon coming here.”

Her finger hovered over the automatic dial button, but his words stopped her cold.

“Elizabeth Borkowski, a detective with the Monterey PD, is married to an old friend of mine from school. She knows about my interest in this case,” he continued, his eyes never leaving hers. “Do you really think the police are going to pay attention to you otherwise, without proof? Liz told me they’d filed your tip.”

Maggie dropped the receiver back in its cradle, feeling her entire body slump a bit at his words. She wrapped her arms tightly around her body, as if literally holding herself together while the adrenaline drained away as quickly as it had come.

“But I noticed the similarities between the New Orleans murders and the Carmel murder.” He closed the gap between them and placed a hand gently on her arm. Comforting, not threatening. A good way to approach the mentally unstable. “And when the cops at the Monterey station mentioned Little Rock, St. Louis and Denver, I plugged in my laptop and pulled up the files,” he said. “I knew you were on to something. But I didn’t expect…” He paused, cleared his throat. “You.”

“You expected Mary Smythe.” She looked down at where he had touched her. It was just a gesture, she told herself. Just meant to inspire trust now that there was a tenuous connection between them. “The crazy woman on Mermaid Point.”

He searched her face, probably trying to ascertain her craziness for himself. “I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Maggie hitched her shoulder abruptly, shrugging his hand off her, surprised when she missed the warmth of his touch once she was free.

“You’re not crazy.” His low voice wrapped around her, making her feel almost safe for the first time in two years. “I don’t know what made those cops think so, but I know your work. You have one of the best research minds out there. I saw you at Quantico.”

Where she’d given several guest lectures. She turned to look out the window at the waves, tugging on the end of her braid. Oh, God, make him stop.

“You blew my mind.”

Bringing her hand up to her forehead, Maggie pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to harden herself to his words.

As if sensing how close she was to her breaking point, he asked, “Case in point, how’d you know I wasn’t James Brentwood? Liz said no one at the station has ever met you.”

She took a moment before responding, praying her voice would come out strong and steady, even though she didn’t feel that way. “Detective James Brentwood is a fidgeter.” He flinched at her emphasis on detective, since he’d answered to officer. She gave him a small smile of sympathy and continued. “On the phone you can hear him clicking pens or drumming his fingers while he talks. You’ve barely moved since you came in. And you didn’t know who Adriana was. I took a chance.”

She turned and met his gaze. He raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

“James’s girlfriend of five months,” she said. “She’s a friend of mine, which is why I asked specifically for him.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.” They stared at each other for a long moment, the silence stretching between them.

“Why do they—?” He stopped, obviously aware that the question he was about to ask was too familiar, too much of a breach of civility. She finished it for him.

“Think I’m crazy? Try whisking me out of the house for a wild night on the town. You’ll find out in about two seconds.”

“Tempting offer.”

She whirled on him, not in the mood to flirt no matter what her sarcastic comment had implied. “Get out,” she said with more venom than she’d meant to deliver. Her vision blurred, and she closed her eyes to stop the sudden tears from spilling out of them. She rubbed a hand against her cheekbone. “I’ve got something in my contact lens,” she lied.

“Maggie—”

She flinched when he took a step toward her, his hand outstretched as if to comfort her. Heaven help her, she was so far beyond comforting. “Get out of my house, Agent Corrigan. You lost any amount of trust I had in you when you brought two weapons into my home and lied to me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

She wrapped her arms around herself and dropped her gaze to the floor, all of her tough-girl pretenses gone. She figured they’d been transparent enough anyway. “Just go.”

Corrigan grabbed his wallet and pulled a card out of it, pressing the small piece of paper onto the bleached wood of the table. “If anything—” He paused. “If anything happens, if you need anything, call me. My cell phone number is at the bottom.”

She snorted in response.

He stepped close, so close, until leaning forward just an inch would have brought their bodies into contact. “I’ll be there,” he said, and she could feel his breath on her cheek.

“Why is this so important to you?” she asked, focusing her gaze on his elbow.

The almost gentle air he’d had abruptly vanished as tension simmered through his frame. He spun around and stalked away, pausing only to pick up his weapons before he headed for the door. Despite the fact that she knew she shouldn’t, Maggie followed, careful to stand to the side when he wrenched it open. “Remember the Riverwalk?” he asked suddenly, his back to her. “The one he took in broad daylight?”

“Jenna—” she paused, almost choking over the next word as understanding dawned “—Corrigan.”

His head turned so she could see a glimpse of his profile in the blinding ray of light streaming in from the outside. “My sister.”

And then he vanished behind the door, to a place where she couldn’t follow.

Chapter Three

Billy floored the accelerator of his FBI-issue Crown Victoria sedan, zipping down Highway 101 as he headed toward San Francisco. Parker was going to have his ass if he didn’t submit that electronic search affadavit for the DigiSystems case. But first, he had one more stop to make. Those computer files weren’t going anywhere.

As he approached the city and his exit, he brought the pale tan car to a slow crawl behind the stalled traffic, his thoughts returning once more to Maggie Reyes. Beautiful, crazy Maggie Reyes. The only woman to survive the Surgeon’s lethal obsession. But had her brilliant, analytical mind survived?

With everything he’d read about the attack, he couldn’t exactly blame her if she wasn’t the same afterward. The newspapers had bled all the terror out of her story, leaving only the ugly, sensational words guaranteed to sell papers—phrases like severe head trauma and blitz attack, coupled with entire paragraphs about how the Surgeon had carried her into the Atchafalaya and sliced off her dark business suit with a sharp knife, leaving shallow cuts marring her once-perfect skin. He’d seen the photos. Nightmare didn’t even begin to describe it. That she’d managed to escape said a lot about how strong she was.

But then there were the rumors he’d heard—whispers of paralyzing fear and even agoraphobia echoed in the classrooms and auditoriums where she’d conducted her famous lectures. For two years, there had been no more books from Maggie Reyes. No more talks. She’d simply disappeared without a trace.

Until now.

Although he’d been deliberately vague about how he’d found her, to avoid freaking her out any more than he already had, he’d actually been looking for Maggie Reyes for some time.

Billy could find just about anyone, as long as the person used a computer hooked up to the outside world. Most people, he’d learned, simply trusted that no one was watching when they logged on. A few months ago, he’d released some specially modified search bots into the Internet, where they’d floated out in the ether, just waiting for one Maggie Reyes to log on anytime, anyplace, and enter her name and address. A few weeks ago, she’d purchased a copy of Through the Looking Glass from an online bookstore, and the bots had come running back to daddy with the news. Child’s play.

And now that he’d found her, practically in his backyard all this time, could he get her to trust him? Her assumption that he was Monterey PD had bought him an invitation inside her home and enough time to assess her state of mind, but it probably hadn’t been such a great idea if he wanted her to warm up to him. Truth was, he wasn’t supposed to be poking his nose in cases that had nothing to do with Computer Crimes, and he needed someone outside the system to help him get the man who’d attacked his sister. He needed Maggie Reyes.

But he hadn’t expect her to be so—

The cars ahead of him suddenly lurched forward, and he abruptly shoved aside thoughts of the woman he’d left behind. Jenna was all that mattered. The image of his sister, her pale, crumpled body covered in blood and grime, came to him in mercilessly clear focus, just as it always did whenever he said or thought her name. Jenna. Jenna. Jenna.

How that image had haunted him, haunted him still. He’d gotten distracted by a case in Silicon Valley. He’d been so close to bringing down the CEO of a high-powered software company on computer embezzlement. So he’d postponed a trip to New Orleans to see his sister, the only remaining member of his immediate family. Then he’d gotten the phone call.

Blitz attack…. He turned down Van Buren Street, the words coming back to him with so much more force than they had when they’d merely been black ink on newsprint. …heavy blood loss…so sorry…. With a sharp twist of his hand, Billy jerked the steering wheel, threading through the line of cars to get to his Mission Street exit ramp. A few minutes later, he pulled the Crown Vic into the driveway of his turn-of-the-century bungalow near the heart of the city, his jaw clenched so tight, it felt like his teeth would shatter. No, he couldn’t ever forget.

He looked up at the house, all but oblivious to the peeling white paint on the wooden siding and the riot of unruly flowers surrounding the walkway. Taking a deep breath, he shoved open the car door and climbed out.

When he reached the house, he batted aside a climbing vine and pulled open the screen door. Inserting the key in the lock, he pushed through and entered. A gaunt, pale woman greeted him at the doorway, wrapped in a thick, worn quilt even though it was 80 degrees outside. Her large blue eyes, red-rimmed from constant tears, had dark hollows beneath them. Despite the air of pure despair that surrounded her, so sharp he felt it cutting into his own skin, she smiled weakly at him. “Hey, Billy,” she said in a voice that sounded as if it hadn’t been used in decades.

“Jenna,” was all he could say in reply, as part of him begged her not to disappear. Again.

BACON. With a single-mindedness only the house-bound possess, Maggie meticulously searched the contents of the freezer for bacon to go with the Cobb salad she’d just tossed. Shoving aside microwave dinners, plastic bags of vegetable medley and a box of frozen peach yogurt pops, she finally found the package of bacon and tossed it on the counter with a frozen clatter. She’d cook it up fresh, of course, because there was no way she’d have those horrible crumbled bits that came in a bottle and tasted like small shards of plastic.

For now, she ignored the package, carefully piling the frozen foods she’d displaced back into the freezer—TV dinners she had for lunch went on one side, and the packaged foods requiring more preparation on the other. Dessert boxes and vegetable bags went on top of the entire arrangement, since they were the least stable.

A faint, icy mist caressed her face, sending a chill down her entire body and raising goosebumps on her forearms, exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of her sweatshirt. She took her hand away, letting the freezer door fall shut.

So cold. That night in the swamp, so long ago. Naked, alone, and so cold. With only the sounds of cicadas and owls and the smell of the dank, fetid waters of the Atchafalaya to keep her company. Until he came back to the decaying cabin, with a sharp knife and the look of a starving man in his dark eyes—things she’d only read about in her books before that spring night. The chill had gotten worse while he studied her, his mouth forming the words that would haunt her long after that night: “Why don’t you run?” But that was the joke, with her hands and feet completely immobilized by fishing line, she couldn’t run. Not even when he’d started cutting.

She slammed the heavy frying pan she’d taken off the stove onto the counter, the force of the blow reverberating up her entire arm. Bacon, dammit.

A little bit of cooking spray. A dash of oil. Bacon. She defrosted the package in the microwave, then peeled a few tepid slices off, tossing them into the pan with shaking hands. Breathe, Maggie. After adding a couple of extras in case Adriana wanted a salad when she came over with the week’s supply of groceries, she turned on the stove burner. Bacon. She could do this. Bacon, bacon, bacon baconbaconbaconbacon…

Whump. Maggie whirled around at the sound, like a hand smacking the glass panes of one of the windows in the next room. Hard. Operating on pure instinct, she focused her senses on pinpointing the potential danger, only noticing that she was brandishing the frying pan over her head when she felt a slice of slimy, lukewarm meat slide down her arm. It fell to the floor with a soft smack and was soon followed by a larger clump. Warm oil slid down the pan and dribbled onto her hand and wrist.

The sound of laughter drew her gaze outside the bay windows. A young couple walked near the rocks by the ocean, tossing a tennis ball for their Irish setter, which scampered ahead of them, tongue lolling out of its mouth as a breeze blew back its shiny red coat. Grinning sheepishly, the man—a sandy blonde wearing a backward Angels cap and baggy shorts that went down to the middle of his tanned calves—held the ball in the air and shrugged apologetically at her.

“Maggie, you paranoid idiot,” she muttered through her teeth, smiling back at him and raising the frying pan in salute. She deliberately relaxed her shoulders, feeling some of the tension leave her body while she watched the boy throw the ball again for the dog. His girlfriend ran to catch up with them and grabbed the brim of his cap, starting a laughing game of tag that continued until they were out of the range of Maggie’s window.

She set the pan down on the counter with a wistful smile, noticing that her pulse had returned almost to normal. Or as normal as it had been since Billy Corrigan, the FBI agent with more than his share of mojo, had walked through her door.

The thought made her laugh as she turned off the stove, then pulled a clump of paper towels off the stand near the sink to clean up the mess on the floor. It really had been too long since she’d been on a date. At this rate, she’d be attacking the UPS man the next time he came over with a delivery. A disturbing image popped into her head of herself dressed in Saran Wrap, draping herself across poor Leonard Hobbes in his brown shorts and knee socks while she told him how much she loved a man in uni-foh-am.

She made a mental note to do a few extra miles on the treadmill that night.

The sound of the doorbell brought her out of her thoughts. With a hurried swipe, she picked up most of the bacon on the floor with her paper towels and deposited it in the stainless-steel trash can. After quickly washing her hands, she yanked the sunflower-patterned towel off the oven-door handle, drying her hands as she went to the door. One glance through the peephole told her Adriana had arrived.

When she pulled the door open, Adriana Torres practically skidded inside, the panels of her red tartan miniskirt swirling around legs encased in black tights that were cut off at the ankles. She quickly dropped the groceries, snapping her gum nervously as she ran a hand through her caramel-brown hair, which was streaked with fire-engine-red highlights—temporary, Maggie hoped. Adriana owned a clothing resale boutique—Maggie knew better than to call it a thrift store—on Cannery Row in Monterey, and she had a tendency to look as though she’d just stepped out of a punk-rock musical.

“What’s up?” Maggie asked, not yet sure whether to laugh at Addy’s drama-queen tendencies or to sit her down and force her to spill whatever was bothering her.

With a whimper, Adriana lurched forward and enveloped Maggie in a surprisingly strong embrace for someone who couldn’t have weighed more than 110 pounds wet. True confessions time it was, then. “What’s going on?” Maggie asked, her hands curling upward as she adjusted to Addy’s strong embrace. “You sound like you just sprinted down all of Seventeen Mile Drive.”

“Ay, I’m just glad you’re okay.” Adriana leaned back and stared at her for a moment, then hugged her tightly again, cracking her gum with a vengeance.

“Of course I am,” Maggie said, her voice calm and strong as she assumed the once-familiar role of caretaker in a crisis. “Why wouldn’t I be? Girlfriend, you’re scaring me.”

Adriana put her hands briefly on Maggie’s cheeks, a “poor shut-in Magdalena” look on her face. Then she backed off, twisting the silver bangles on one wrist and muttering to herself in Spanish. One thing about Adriana—she’d been an American citizen for eighteen years, but her English, which was perfect in most circumstances, almost completely deserted her under stress. And if Maggie knew her correctly, she would mutter for a few more moments and then…après muttering, le déluge.

Addy didn’t disappoint. She took a deep gulp of air and then let it rip. “Okay. First thing we have to do is call James. He’ll know what to do. Then we have to get you over to my house somehow without your flipping over. Maybe with good drugs you can leave the state, even—”

“Flipping out,” Maggie corrected her automatically. “Addy, breathe.” She was dying to know what had gotten Adriana so spun up, but she knew she’d never find out if the woman passed out in her entryway.

“But—”

“Breathe.”

Adriana threw her slender hands in the air, her rings sparkling under the skylight, and cursed rapidly in Spanish. “Por el amor de Dios, Magdalena Luz, I’m a yoga instructor. I know how to breathe.” The yoga was a new thing. Addy taught classes after hours in the upstairs rooms of her shop in an effort to share her latest obsession with the world.