Where All The Dead Lie

“Mmm, Mmm Good.”

“Mmm, Mmm Good.”

On her friend Ariadne’s advice, she approached her recovery from the holistic side as well, with herbs meant to soothe and relax her throat. She drank green tea with honey. She took the Percocet to relieve the pain. Sometimes, she even took her Ativan. Dutifully exercised and followed most of the doctor’s instructions.

She had felt like an idiot, getting Botox in her throat. It had helped, but only temporarily. The minute she started to talk again, during a conversation with Baldwin about the shooting, she clammed up. Literally felt her throat close. She’d had a cat once who would have coughing fits—almost as if it couldn’t breathe and began to choke. That’s exactly how she felt, constricted, no air, no way to scream.

The nightmares were the worst. They were fever dreams, which amplified and grew simple situations far beyond their proportions—a dark room turning into a cold grave with dirt thrown on her head, figurines who came to life and threatened to strangle her, Sam’s baby talking to her, though it wasn’t bigger than a speck of dust. She’d wake in the night, body rigid, hair clinging to her head, chest covered in sweat, mouth open, nothing coming out. She couldn’t scream in her dreams, either, and she couldn’t help but think if she could just let loose there, this would all stop. She’d get her voice back.

But the dreams were worsening.

She knew she needed this change. She’d been clinging to the thought that work would be the solution, but she’d felt so…helpless this afternoon.

The accident, the woman being run down right in front of her—she’d tried so hard to call for help, and nothing had come.

She’d seen the doubt in Huston’s eyes. One of the guys must have reported in about her visit that afternoon. It was readily apparent that she wasn’t ready to go back to fieldwork. If she wouldn’t be allowed to do anything but drive a desk, that would make her stir-crazy.

Getting away, being alone, appealed so much. She was tired of people trying to help. Of being babysat, and chauffeured, and looked at with pity. And suspicion. She couldn’t help but read the subtext of her day—Taylor, we love you, but you’re just not ready. Maybe they had a point. And face it, people got hurt when she was around, whether they were strangers, friends or lovers.

Some time alone might help her find a way to forgive herself. And maybe, find a way to forgive Baldwin. At this point, she was prepared to try most anything.

How to tell Baldwin that she wanted to go to Scotland without him—that was the problem. She didn’t feel right about it. She knew Memphis was interested in more than friendship, and that was the biggest thorn in the plan.

Memphis. With his ridiculously blue eyes and obvious hunger for her.

If she could just let go of the idea of them together, none of this would matter. She could go to Scotland, conscience clear, and get some much-needed away time from her life.

Memphis was the only one who treated her like she was still Taylor, not some shell of a being. It was…nice.

He’d be a gentleman. She’d make sure of it. Besides, she was a big girl. She knew how to handle herself. If Memphis got frisky, she’d knee him in the balls.

The thought made her laugh.

She was shivering now. Reluctantly, she about-faced and headed for the house. Back to reality. Baldwin would be waiting, a hopeful expression on his face. He would make her food, ply her with wine. He had gotten her drunk one night and made love to her, and she’d said his name at the end, softly, but there, full in her mouth, and he’d held her so tight she could barely breathe.

Things weren’t right between them, not at all, but she needed him. He was a part of her soul, as important to her as her hands. But she needed him to understand her hurt, to understand her desire for a little time apart. She loved him desperately, but looking at him just reminded her of his betrayal. If she hadn’t been shot, hadn’t been through the horror of the surgeries and the dysphonia, she would have cut off her nose to spite her face and stopped talking to him. This seemed a better punishment, forcing him to watch her struggle.

She had faced the abyss, and turned away, not accepting its lure, and yet here she was, still being penalized.

Two words. That’s all she really needed to hear from him. Two words that he danced around.

God, if he would just say I’m sorry.

CHAPTER TEN

Baldwin watched Taylor walking down the street toward the drive. Why she was on foot, he didn’t know, unless she and Sam had words and Taylor bolted from the car. Which was entirely possible. Taylor was a cactus with everyone these days.

He thoughtfully chewed the end of a pencil. She was truly struggling, and he’d tried everything. She wasn’t letting him in, and after four weeks of begging and pleading to let him help her, he was still getting the big brush-off. He was getting tired of her obstinacy, but didn’t know what else to do. And he had his own demons to wrestle.

He watched her stop and glance up at the window. He waved and she waved back. She looked almost happy for the first time in weeks. Maybe things would be all right tonight. He smiled at her, then went back to his desk. Felt like he was turning his back on her. Maybe he was.

His chest was heavy. He was losing her. And after watching her get shot, going down on the floor in a bloody heap, then praying for days that she’d wake up, that she’d be normal, then the constant fighting…all the tension had drained him. She wasn’t exactly giving him a lot to work with—the occasional smile, a laugh here or there. Some emails and handwritten notes.

She’d pulled into herself, shut him out. He knew she was angry and upset. Hell, he didn’t blame her. But he also felt like she was being unfair. She was fighting her own battle, and not giving him any consideration. He was beginning to have his doubts that she loved him enough to forgive him. He should have told her, yes. But she was carrying the grudge like a mantle, swinging it from end to end with bull’s horns.

She couldn’t experience the emotions he was feeling. How could she? It was his son that was missing.

His son. He’d only found out about him last year, when the child had just turned four years old. The boy’s mother, Charlotte Douglas, was dead. Their affair was a momentary fling during a high-pressure case, and when she’d gotten pregnant, she told him she’d aborted their child.

And he, damn himself, had believed her. Stopped speaking to her, fled to Nashville. He hadn’t seen her in years.

Charlotte had carried and delivered the child in secret, gotten him adopted out, and never told Baldwin of the boy’s existence. All Baldwin wanted was to find his son and bring him home.

Charlotte hadn’t named the boy on the birth certificate. Another slap. Baldwin knew he shouldn’t be getting so emotionally involved—this was the kind of situation that often ended badly, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d never wanted kids, but suddenly felt the need for family. For permanence. For marriage. Three kids and a dog, no. But something to anchor him to an otherwise elusive world.

He thought Taylor wanted that, too, but the shooting seemed to shake something loose inside her.

Baldwin needed to let that all go for the time being. He had an emergency meeting to attend. Atlantic had sent word that he needed Baldwin, immediately.

His contact was currently eight hours ahead of him, and an early riser. He got into his address book and started dialing numbers. Getting in touch with his handler was a process—phone calls, codes, paging services, emails—all designed to bounce off multiple servers and systems and be nigh on impossible to track.

Atlantic wasn’t CIA, or MI-6, or Mossad, or any other official agency. Atlantic ran people from them all from behind the scenes, an agent here, an agent there. Covert missions that were performed by operatives from all branches of the intelligence services across the world on a need-to-know basis. Missions that were so top secret that they simply didn’t exist.

Baldwin finished dialing, then sat back and listened to the bells and beeps and whirrs that told him he was being routed through a secure line. The computer screen came to life, and Atlantic popped up like the Wizard of Oz, his disembodied bald head pixilated into submission.

“Good evening, M,” Baldwin said.

“Being a smart-ass will get you nowhere, my boy.”

Atlantic’s gaze was as cold and frigid as the ocean, a genetic anomaly that made his blue eyes abnormally light, like a Siberian Husky. Baldwin had finally figured out Atlantic’s heritage: he’d thought the man Belgian for a time, but moving farther east into Eurasia gave him what he was looking for. Baldwin was convinced Atlantic was a full-blood Ainu, the indigenous Japanese, who are often mistaken for Caucasians. The blue eyes were the giveaway; they couldn’t belong to any creature that wasn’t half-tied to the beginnings of the earth. Atlantic was a big man, broad through the shoulders and torso. His fingers were like sausages, with precisely trimmed and buffed square nails. Baldwin had no doubt that Atlantic could choke the life from a man with one hand while examining the other for hangnails. He was ice.

“We have a problem. One of our specialists has gone off the grid. Julius. I need you to look into it, let us know where he may be headed.”

Baldwin was a reluctant member of one of Atlantic’s more covert groups, known as Operation Angelmaker. He profiled the men and women Atlantic had on call to do wet work, the assassins tasked with keeping the world a safer place. Atlantic’s world, at least. Baldwin was responsible for determining their mental status using thorough psychological examinations and his own special talent for profiling. When one started acting up, Baldwin’s job was to predict just how bad the situation might get.

The problem was he had to immerse himself in the case, and he wasn’t sure that taking on a job of this proportion, with Taylor so strung out, was such a good idea.

“I assume you’ve already cleared this through Garrett?”

Garrett Woods was Baldwin’s boss at Quantico. He was the one who’d gotten Baldwin wrapped up with Atlantic in the first place.

“Yes. You’re teaching at a private enterprise for the week. Substituting for another profiler who got sick at the last minute. The cover is secure.”

“Fine. I’ll do it. But Taylor…if I have to travel, I’m worried about leaving her alone.”

“You have to stop worrying about that girl. She’s tough as nails. Now get to work. The files have been sent to you. I expect a briefing Wednesday morning.”

The screen went black. Atlantic was gone.

Well. Dinner was certainly going to be interesting.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Taylor went around to the back of the house, through the gate, so she could steal one last moment of peace before she went inside. She stopped midway through the yard and stood looking out over the woods. She’d seen a deer the other night, and the damn owl that had taken up residence in their river birch had hooted in alarm. The doe, soft-footed and sweet, seemed utterly unconcerned with the frantic owl and nibbled delicately at a dried corncob Taylor had thrown out for her.

To have that calm confidence back, that was what Taylor wanted.

She smiled at the memory, said, “Mmm, Mmm,” twice more for good measure, then took a deep breath and entered the house. The downstairs was deserted. Baldwin must still be up in his office.

The answering machine was blinking, so she grabbed the notepad they kept next to the phone and hit Play.

Three messages.

The first was from a reporter at Channel Four, after her for a comprehensive sit-down exclusive interview.

She deleted it before the girl stopped talking. No way, no how, was she going to do that.

The second was Dr. Benedict’s office, needing some arcane insurance detail. She wrote down the information and deleted the message.

The last one shook her.

A voice at once familiar and alien emanated from the speaker.

“Um, hi, Taylor. This is your dad. Listen, um, I’m getting out today. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. It’s early. Good behavior. This place has been getting crowded, so they sprang a few of us that weren’t considered a ‘threat to society.’ I’m heading down to Nashville and I thought that we could, I don’t know, talk. I’ll be at the house. Call me.”

He rattled off a number and the machine went dead.

Taylor stood frozen, staring at the phone as if it had sprouted a mouth and started talking. Win. Winthrop Thomas Stewart Jackson IV. Her illustrious father, getting out of the federal penitentiary early for good behavior? Son of a bitch. Really, this day was just getting better and better.

Barely able to contain her annoyance, Taylor wrote a note about her dad’s release and mounted the stairs. Baldwin was sitting at his desk, fingers flying over the keyboard. The widescreen monitor was on. She got a quick glance of what looked like a sumptuous office before Baldwin realized she was there and hit the screen saver. More secrets. She almost turned around, but she honestly couldn’t face the idea of her father alone.

“What’s up?” Baldwin asked, leaning back in his chair, all nonchalance.

She thrust the note at him. Baldwin read it, then simply stared at Taylor with his mouth open for half a second. Shaking his head, he pushed back from the desk.

“Wine. Food. Let’s go make dinner. The rest comes later.”

That sounded good to her.

Silent steps down into the kitchen. Baldwin disappeared into the basement for a few moments then returned with two bottles of wine.

“Zinfandel or Nero d’Avola?” he asked. She raised two fingers.

“Nero it is.” He popped the cork on the wine, inserted the aerator, poured them each a glass. She took a sip. The wine was rich and thick, and she felt herself relax a bit. She took her Ativan, let Baldwin see her do it. She was going to be a good little girl. She also snuck another Percocet, just a little something to keep the edge of the headache at bay for a while. Maybe she’d actually be able to talk tonight. She kept hoping that her voice would suddenly start working.

Carbonara was on the menu for the evening, and Taylor sautéed pancetta while Baldwin got the pasta boiling and whisked the eggs and cheese together. She adored the dish. Really—how could you go wrong with Italian bacon and eggs?

The meal was ready in ten minutes and they sat together at the table, grinding pepper, sipping wine, both trapped in their own thoughts. Between the salt, the wine and the drugs, the thoughts of her happy place, Taylor felt her throat relax. She recognized this sensation. It generally preceded her actually speaking a few words aloud.

“My dad,” she managed to get out before everything tightened up again.

Shit.

“Hey—that was great.” Baldwin said. “I can only imagine what you must be feeling right now. I can make some calls, but it sounds like he’s already been released. Do you want to see him?”

Taylor had thought about that while she cooked. She shook her head, mouthed no.

“Okay. Listen, Atlantic called. I have to handle a case for him. It might mean some travel, and you know how this goes—it might be overseas. But I’m not thrilled about leaving you here by yourself, especially going into Christmas. So what do you think? If I have to go, do you want to come with me?”

The thoughts came fast and furious. Seriously? Had he been looking at her chat history? That was awfully convenient timing. She’d already been prepared to accept Memphis’s offer; hell, she was going to broach the subject as soon as they finished eating. The phone call from her dad had fully cemented it. Getting over four thousand miles away from her father wasn’t just a super idea, it was an absolute necessity. The sessions with Willig could be put on hold for a few days, especially if Memphis had a friend she could work with. There was just one little hiccup. How was Baldwin going to react to her news?

“Mmm…Mmmemphis,” she said, then stopped, uncertain of how to explain the situation properly.

Baldwin sat back in his chair, searched her face. He finally shrugged. “I was afraid you’d say that. But hey, at least you said it. The consonant practice is helping, yes?”

An olive branch. She could tell he was fighting an internal battle; his face was smiling, but his eyes were cold. Baldwin was not a fan of Memphis Highsmythe.

She hadn’t mentioned that she and Memphis had been communicating by email or iChat almost daily for the past few weeks. It hadn’t seemed necessary at the time; it was harmless stuff. Mostly harmless. But would Baldwin see it that way? Well, hell, did Baldwin have any right to dictate who she did or didn’t talk to? No. She melted and got her back up at the same time—being upset with Baldwin took so much energy. She just didn’t know how to make things right.

Honestly was the only path she had right now. If it cost her everything, so be it.

Taylor grabbed the notepad.

We’ve been chatting online. He’s been a big help. He’s offered to have me come to Scotland, work with a psychologist friend of his. This sounds like good timing all around, don’t you think? You can work on your case and I can work on getting this resolved once and for all. Now that we know about the EMDR and its promise, maybe I can turn things around.

She slid the note to Baldwin, watched his face turn four shades of red before he sighed, then smiled and looked up.

“Hell, I don’t blame you for reaching out to Memphis. I haven’t exactly been easy to talk to these past few weeks.” He grabbed her hand, knocking over the pepper mill in his vehemence. “I’m sorry, darling. I’m sorry on so many levels. I’m not sure what I can do to make this up to you. Please, please, will you forgive me?”

Taylor felt the tightly banded chain on her heart crack a bit. This was what she wanted, right? For him to apologize. To offer to make things right. They were better as a team. Together they could conquer anything. But apart, they were two lonely icebergs, drifting silently toward a certain doom. She pushed Memphis’s face from her mind. Later. She’d worry about him later. She just missed Baldwin so much, even though he was right there with her.

She stood and signaled for Baldwin. Took him in her arms, and let him kiss her. She kissed him back. Felt all the earlier animosity slide away when his tongue touched hers. They were like vinegar and baking soda, a child’s science project. Mix the ingredients, put them together and boom, a volcano. Maybe she was softening, maybe she was just tired of fighting it so hard. But there was nothing, nothing in her world that could make her feel like this.

“I love you,” he whispered, and she said it back, surprised when the words slid from her mouth without a moment of hesitation. Baldwin walked her backward into the living room, to the couch. They didn’t bother with the niceties, simply shed the necessary garments and joined as quickly as they could, finding solace in each other.

They lay breathless, the food forgotten. She felt good. Stronger. More in control. She could handle this.

She must have fallen asleep for a moment, because she came to and realized Baldwin was playing with her hair. He looked down at her with serious eyes.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

She smiled at him, hugged his body closer. God, she missed this most of all.

Baldwin shifted his weight a bit. “Taylor, you weren’t really serious about going to Scotland, were you?”

She took a deep breath and blew it out. Sat up, found her jeans and pulled them on. Her notepad was on the table. She looked over her shoulder at Baldwin, lying on the living room floor, an arm crooked behind his head. He read something in her glance, sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees.

I want to go, Baldwin. I need to. I can’t take it here right now. Everyone staring and pointing, talking about me behind my back. It’s mortifying.

“But Taylor, you’re fighting hard. You’re nearly there. An other week with Willig and I bet you have your voice back.”

He scrambled up off the floor and came to join her at the table.

This is just something I need to do.

“So you’re leaving me?”

No no no. No! Not at all. I just think I need some time to myself to get better.

“And where will Memphis be?”

He’s working a case. He’ll get me up there, then head back to London. I’ll be alone, with his shrink friend. Understand, Baldwin, please. I can’t do this, therapy, whatever you want to call it, with people who know me. It’s just too much to ask.

He didn’t say anything. She watched his hand grasping the stem of his wineglass, could see the tension in his fingers. She hated hurting him like this, but it was for the best. She needed some space. No one was giving her any space.

He finished off his wine.

“Fine, Taylor. If this is what you want. Go to Scotland. I give you my blessing.”

I wasn’t asking permission, she thought, but refrained from writing it down. No sense in upsetting him more than he already was.

He stared at her for a moment, then stood and threw his wineglass at the sink. It exploded into shards, and he walked out of the room without a second glance.

So it was decided.

She was going to Scotland.

Taylor waited until Baldwin was asleep to send a message to Memphis. It was late in Nashville, past two in the morning, and her head was pounding, but she was wide-awake. She and insomnia were back on speaking terms after a disastrous bout with Ambien left her incoherent. She never responded well to sleeping pills, had the opposite reaction from most people. The Ambien made her frazzled and jumpy all night, then she crashed for ten hours once the sun came up. Turning into a vampire wasn’t really an option, even though the doctors said more sleep would help her throat heal faster. She’d managed for all these years already, so she rebuffed their attempts to drug her, stuck with the pain meds and her pool table.

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