bright green eyes? She knew she would not miss him, was glad to be rid of him. When Sean was done with a thing, she could walk away without looking back. It was part of her training-her nature.
After all was said and done, the most troubling part of all this was why a sociopath had chosen her out of all of the millions of women out there who were far richer, more beautiful, and more vulnerable than she. Although it was possible, she didn't want to believe he had picked her at random the way a hawk selects a single mouse from the many he watches. She had been vulnerable because she was lonely-because her mother hadn't been there to offer advice.
He's insane, she thought, and shuddered.
She had never been afraid of him before. Now Dylan had drugged marshals and crept into her room while she slept. Had he intended to harm her tonight? Had something interrupted him before he could do anything to her? What did he stand to gain?
Through the shutters she could see the sun rising. She would feel better after she showered and dressed. Getting out of bed, she slid a drawer open to select underwear and a top.
She picked out a sky-blue T-shirt, then opened another drawer for a pair of jeans and was startled to see a towel laid carefully on top of her clothes. Odd.
Puzzled, Sean lifted the towel away.
The thing she saw there, a nightmare lying between the stack of folded pants, made her scream in horror.
28
Winter was in the security room watching the monitors when he heard Sean. Drawing his handgun, he ran out into her bedroom just behind Martinez. Sean, her face as white as porcelain, stood pointing at the open drawer. Except for the fact that its severed head had been placed inches from its body, the cat looked as if he had climbed into the drawer and curled up to nap.
“Midnight,” Sean murmured.
“Jesus wept,” Greg muttered over Winter's shoulder.
“Hee-yere kitty, kitty, kitty,” Dylan sang out cheerfully from his bedroom.
Sean sat on the edge of her bed and sobbed. Martinez sat beside her and put her arm around her.
Winter lifted Midnight from the drawer, wrapped him in the towel, and carried the animal past Dylan's open door without looking in.
“Whut has happened to mah pussy?” Dylan called out as Winter passed. His laughter filled the house like acrid smoke.
“He killed Midnight,” Winter said gently, when Jet saw the bundle.
Tears of grief and anger rolled down her cheeks. “That man's the devil. He drugged me, too. Came into my bedroom and took Midnight.”
Winter wrapped the towel containing Midnight in old newspaper and secured the bundle using twine. Greg sat beside Jet and placed his hands on hers, speaking in a voice so low that it was impossible to hear what he was saying.
“Winter,” Greg said, his voice choked with anger, “Jet will be leaving on the store boat as soon as it gets here for the Thursday delivery.”
“I'm sorry, you'll have to get another cook. I can't stay here now.”
She stood slowly, as if her bones were brittle, and put on her raincoat. Gently, she took the bundle from Winter and went out the back door.
Greg went to the doorway and gestured for Dixon.
“You feeling all right, Bear?” he asked. When Dixon nodded, he said, “Then go out back and help Jet bury her pet.”
“Sick son of a bitch!” Winter's temper was blazing. “He did all that just so he could kill the cat and plant it so Sean would find it. That miserable, sick bastard.”
“This is a Taser,” Winter explained to Sean. “It's nonlethal, but it will knock Dylan on his ass for several minutes, which will give you time to get away from him.”
Sean weighed the plastic handgun-shaped object in her hand.
“It's instinctive, like aiming a gun. Point it like you're pointing your finger and squeeze the trigger. Don't jerk it.” Winter instructed her. “Fires tiny darts that pull wire leads out, darts stick into the target, completing a circuit from a nine-volt battery in the handle.”
“Isn't that much electricity dangerous?” she asked, hoping he'd say yes.
“No amps, just voltage.”
“It makes the muscles seize up. If you ever have to use it, yell for help while you're running away,” Martinez added.
“So, do I just carry it around in my hand?”
“When we're close, you won't need it,” Martinez told her. “Tell you what. Take my jacket. There's a pocket inside for my duty piece. That okay, you think, Winter?”
“If it makes her feel safer,” Winter said.
Sean was comforted by the control over Dylan the strange weapon could offer her.
An hour later in the living room, when she looked up from her book and saw Dylan coming, it was too late to reach inside the jacket for the Taser. As he loomed over her, his expression was one of amusement. Martinez was coming back and Beck appeared at the door to the dining room, then started across the room. “I see your escort isn't any better than mine.”
“Back off, Mr. Devlin,” Martinez ordered, crossing the room.
“Stay where you are, Deputy,” Dylan said, his voice icy calm. “Still don't want to talk, Sean?”
Sean knew that Dylan could hurt her, perhaps kill her, before Martinez could stop him.
“What's the matter, darling? Cat got your tongue?”
Sean was frightened until he said that, but after the words registered, she felt white-hot rage. Before she knew she was going to do anything, she had lashed out, striking Dylan's cheek with her open hand hard enough to rock his head.
Beck and Martinez rushed to intervene, but Dylan's response was instantaneous. Sean saw stars and had a numb realization that she had been punched square in her mouth. Martinez tried to grab him, but Dylan pushed her away. Sean reached into her jacket and drew out the Taser, but before she could fire it, he grabbed her hand and twisted it. Sean wasn't sure whether she triggered the weapon or Dylan did, but when the apparatus popped loudly, Beck fell heavily to the floor, convulsing.
When Dylan drew back his fist to hit her again, Winter seemed to materialize out of thin air. He caught Dylan's wrist, spun him around, and punched him hard on the nose.
In a blur of motion the two men fell backward. Dylan now had Winter's wrist, and he used Winter's weight to pull him off-balance. When Winter landed on the floor, Dylan was straddling his chest, pressing the muzzle of Winter's pistol, which he had managed to grab in the struggle, against the supine deputy's forehead.
Blood ran in dual streams from Dylan's nose, dripped from his chin onto Winter's shirt.
“With your own gun, you meddling piece of shit,” Dylan told him calmly.
Sean was afraid, but Winter merely looked defiant. His arms were stretched out, his hands resting on the rug, palms open.
Suddenly Greg had his gun inches from the back of Dylan's skull. Martinez aimed at Dylan's temple and Cross at the rear quarter of Dylan's head.
Greg barked, “Think, Devlin. You pull the trigger, you'll be all over this room.”
Sean didn't care if the deputies shot Dylan. Of the two men with guns aimed at them, she cared only about Winter.
“Maybe I won't kill this faggot, if he begs.”
“Dylan,” Sean said in a steely voice, “you're making a complete fool of yourself.”
“I'm not bluffing,” Greg said calmly.
