street. “Keep talking to me,
Josephine.”
“What do you want me to say?”
Josephine’s voice was calmer now. “You were right, I was wrong?”
Taking one look at the bumper to
bumper traffic, he jogged north on foot, dodging pedestrians. “Sounds like a
good place to start.”
She laughed, just enough to take
the edge off his skyrocketing nerves. Then he cursed his colleagues at BAU. What
the hell were Walker and Nicholl thinking?
“How did you know about the scars?”
she asked suddenly.
Now there was a question he’d been
waiting for and didn’t want to answer.
“You checked me out that night you
drugged me in Boston, didn’t you?” Her voice sounded distant as if she’d
disconnected from him. That night he’d saved her from a mob hit and then
drugged her so he could implant the transmitter and set up his plans without
having to watch her every single moment. But if Josephine thought seeing her
skin was an invasion of privacy he was pretty sure she’d flip if she knew about
the microchip.
“I put you to bed, remember? I
started to undress you, but then I saw the scars…” Damn. At least that lie was
better than admitting the truth, even though he sounded like a pervert. “After
I saw them I figured you’d rather I left your clothes on.” This wasn’t a
conversation to have over the phone.
The silence drew out. He didn’t
like the sensation of her pulling away.
Dead leaves gathered in gutters,
black and soaked from last night’s rain. The sky was overcast and heavy
moisture damp in the air. A siren screamed going fast in the opposite direction.
It was only eleven a.m., but Marsh hoped the park was packed full of people
enjoying an early lunch.
“Josephine? You there?” Fear soared
at the silence and his heart punched against his ribs. “Josephine!”
It took him less than two minutes
flat out running. His leg muscles burned, hot air fired his lungs, but he was
right there, heading for the centre of Washington Square, frantically searching
the area for the blonde termagant who’d taken over his life.
And there she was.
Relief surged through him like a
hot wave as he spotted her dressed in the same olive-drab jacket from
yesterday. She was sitting hunched over on a bench, phone to her ear, one arm
folded over her chest, legs tightly crossed, glaring at some guy who wore a
banner proclaiming, ‘Are You Going to Heaven? Take a test .’
She was safe. Pissed as usual, but
safe. And not going to Heaven if he could help it—not today anyway.
The trees were almost bare, a few
orange sycamore leaves clinging tenaciously to survival. It was more than a
little ironic they were standing on an old burial ground. He took a moment to
regain his breath. Searched the area for possible threats, all the time keeping
Josephine in his peripheral vision.
There was one guy, sitting on a
nearby concrete bench, The NY News spread over his knees as he munched
on a sandwich. Mid fifties, jeans, thick rust-colored sweater, balding head
with a compensatory beard. He looked like a university professor.
Marsh watched him glance and squint
over at Josephine. Then the guy turned the page of the newspaper, fighting with
a brisk breeze that whistled through the streets, flattened the page against
his knee. He glanced up again. Then Marsh realized the guy was looking at the
photograph of him and Josephine in the newspaper.
People didn’t forget a face like
that.
Marsh dismissed him. On the far
side of the park, behind the Arch, Marsh spotted Walker and Nicholl in a
Lincoln town car parked along The Row. Narrowing his eyes, he shook his head,
placing his hands on his hips. They were staking her out to see if she led them
anywhere. She was a freaking suspect. Or bait…
Suddenly she was beside him,
holding out a can of cola. Accepting the drink, he pulled the tab and swallowed
deeply, letting the sweet lick of sugar calm his blood.
Handing back the can, he slanted
her a look that dared her to share. Josephine
Josephine.”
“What do you want me to say?”
Josephine’s voice was calmer now. “You were right, I was wrong?”
Taking one look at the bumper to
bumper traffic, he jogged north on foot, dodging pedestrians. “Sounds like a
good place to start.”
She laughed, just enough to take
the edge off his skyrocketing nerves. Then he cursed his colleagues at BAU. What
the hell were Walker and Nicholl thinking?
“How did you know about the scars?”
she asked suddenly.
Now there was a question he’d been
waiting for and didn’t want to answer.
“You checked me out that night you
drugged me in Boston, didn’t you?” Her voice sounded distant as if she’d
disconnected from him. That night he’d saved her from a mob hit and then
drugged her so he could implant the transmitter and set up his plans without
having to watch her every single moment. But if Josephine thought seeing her
skin was an invasion of privacy he was pretty sure she’d flip if she knew about
the microchip.
“I put you to bed, remember? I
started to undress you, but then I saw the scars…” Damn. At least that lie was
better than admitting the truth, even though he sounded like a pervert. “After
I saw them I figured you’d rather I left your clothes on.” This wasn’t a
conversation to have over the phone.
The silence drew out. He didn’t
like the sensation of her pulling away.
Dead leaves gathered in gutters,
black and soaked from last night’s rain. The sky was overcast and heavy
moisture damp in the air. A siren screamed going fast in the opposite direction.
It was only eleven a.m., but Marsh hoped the park was packed full of people
enjoying an early lunch.
“Josephine? You there?” Fear soared
at the silence and his heart punched against his ribs. “Josephine!”
It took him less than two minutes
flat out running. His leg muscles burned, hot air fired his lungs, but he was
right there, heading for the centre of Washington Square, frantically searching
the area for the blonde termagant who’d taken over his life.
And there she was.
Relief surged through him like a
hot wave as he spotted her dressed in the same olive-drab jacket from
yesterday. She was sitting hunched over on a bench, phone to her ear, one arm
folded over her chest, legs tightly crossed, glaring at some guy who wore a
banner proclaiming, ‘Are You Going to Heaven? Take a test .’
She was safe. Pissed as usual, but
safe. And not going to Heaven if he could help it—not today anyway.
The trees were almost bare, a few
orange sycamore leaves clinging tenaciously to survival. It was more than a
little ironic they were standing on an old burial ground. He took a moment to
regain his breath. Searched the area for possible threats, all the time keeping
Josephine in his peripheral vision.
There was one guy, sitting on a
nearby concrete bench, The NY News spread over his knees as he munched
on a sandwich. Mid fifties, jeans, thick rust-colored sweater, balding head
with a compensatory beard. He looked like a university professor.
Marsh watched him glance and squint
over at Josephine. Then the guy turned the page of the newspaper, fighting with
a brisk breeze that whistled through the streets, flattened the page against
his knee. He glanced up again. Then Marsh realized the guy was looking at the
photograph of him and Josephine in the newspaper.
People didn’t forget a face like
that.
Marsh dismissed him. On the far
side of the park, behind the Arch, Marsh spotted Walker and Nicholl in a
Lincoln town car parked along The Row. Narrowing his eyes, he shook his head,
placing his hands on his hips. They were staking her out to see if she led them
anywhere. She was a freaking suspect. Or bait…
Suddenly she was beside him,
holding out a can of cola. Accepting the drink, he pulled the tab and swallowed
deeply, letting the sweet lick of sugar calm his blood.
Handing back the can, he slanted
her a look that dared her to share. Josephine
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