In Graywolf's Hands. Marie Ferrarella
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so slowly, Lydia eased herself into the suds-filled water. Leaning back, she frowned at her left shoulder. The cellophane crinkled, straining at the tape she’d used to keep the wrap in place.
Graywolf had warned her about getting her stitches wet just before she left him and, though she’d pretended to dismiss his words, she wasn’t about to do anything that might impede her immediate and complete recovery. There was no question in her mind that she’d go stir crazy inside of a week if the Bureau forced her to go on some sort of disability leave. She had no actual hobbies to fill up her time, no books piling up on her desk, waiting to be read, just a few articles on state-of-the-art surveillance. Nothing she couldn’t get through in a few hours.
Her work was her life and it took up all of her time. Yes, there was the occasional program she watched on television outside of the news and, once in a while, she took in a movie, usually with her mother or grandfather. There was even the theater every year or so. But for the most part, she ate and slept her job and she truly liked it that way. Liked the challenge of fitting the pieces of a puzzle together to create a whole, no matter how long it took.
It hadn’t taken all that long this time, she thought, watching bubbles already begin to dissipate. The tip they’d gotten from Elliot’s source had been right on the money.
Looking back, she thought, things seemed to have happened in lightning succession. An informer in the New World supremacy group they had been keeping tabs on had tipped off the Bureau that a bombing at a populated area was in the works. Initially, that had been it: a populated area. No specifics. That could have meant a museum, an amusement park, anyplace. For a week, with the clock ticking, they’d all sweated it out, having nothing to go on.
And then they’d gotten lucky. Very lucky, she thought, swishing the water lazily with her hand, letting the heat relax her. If that informant hadn’t had a run-in with Conroy and been nursing a grudge against him, they would have never been able to piece things together. Even so, they’d gotten to the mall only seconds before the explosion had rocked the western end, the site that had just been newly renovated and expanded and had been filled with Native American art and artifacts.
As Elliot had driven through the city streets, trying to get there in time, she’d been on her phone, frantically calling the local police and alerting mall security to evacuate as many people as possible.
It been an exercise in futility. They’d reached the mall ahead of the police. She’d scanned the parking lot, taking in the amount of cars there, appalled at the number, even though by weekend standards, it was low.
The explosion had hit just as they’d parked. The force had sent one teenager flying into the air. He was dead by the time she’d reached him. It was then that she and Elliot had spotted Conroy running around the rear of what was left of that part of the structure.
She barely remembered yelling out a warning. All she could focus on was Conroy turning and aiming his gun in Elliot’s direction. The rest had happened in blurry slow motion.
And try as she might, she still didn’t remember being hit.
There were others involved; she knew that they were going to be caught. It was a silent promise she made to the teenager who wouldn’t be going home tonight. Or ever.
Lydia sank down farther into her tub, the one luxury she had allowed herself when she moved in, replacing the fourteen-inch high bathtub with one that could easily submerge a hippo if necessary. Some people took quick, hot showers to wash away the tension of the day; she took baths when she had the time. Long, steamy, soul-restoring baths.
The phone rang, intruding.
Glancing at the portable receiver she’d brought in with her, Lydia debated just letting her machine pick up the call. But the shrill ringing had destroyed the tranquillity that had begun seeping into her soul.
Besides, it might be about Conroy.
Stretching, she reached over the side of the tub for the receiver and pressed the talk button. “Wakefield.”
“Don’t you ever say hello anymore?” The voice on the other end had a soft twang to it.
She smiled, sinking back against the tub again, envisioning the soft, rosy face, the gentle, kind eyes that were too often set beneath worried brows. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”
“Nothing, darling. I was just lonely for the sound of your voice.”
Lydia knew evasion when she heard it. For now she played along. “Well, here it is, in its full glory.”
“You sound tired.”
Her mother was slowly working up to whatever had prompted her to call, Lydia thought. That was the difference between them. She pounced, her mother waltzed. Slowly. “It’s been a long day.”
There was just the slightest bit of hesitation. “Anything you can tell me about?”
Her mother knew better than that. “Just lots of paperwork, that’s all,” Lydia told her. Idly, she moved her toe around, stirring the water. Bubbles began fading faster. The scent of vanilla clung.
She heard her mother laugh shortly. “You lie as badly as your father did.”
Lydia glanced at her shoulder to make sure it was still above the waterline. Keeping it up wasn’t easy even if she was leaning against the soap holder.
“You don’t want to know details, Mom.” It was supposed to be an unspoken agreement between them. Her mother didn’t ask and she didn’t have to lie. Her mother was slipping. “All you need to know is that I’m okay. I’m soaking in a tub right now.”
“Alone?”
Half asleep she still would have been able to hear the hopeful note in her mother’s voice. “Yes, unless you count Dean Martin on the radio.”
Her mother made no effort to silence the sigh that escaped. “Sorry, I was just hoping…”
She knew what her mother was hoping. It was an old refrain. “Mom, don’t take this the wrong way, but not tonight, all right?”
“Something happened, didn’t it? I heard about the bombing.”
Here it comes, Lydia thought. The real reason for the call.
“Was that you—”
“Doing the bombing?” Lydia cut in cheerfully. “No.” She decided to toss her mother a bone. Even the Bureau wasn’t entirely heartless. “Doing the picking up of pieces? Yes. We’ve got a suspect in custody—that’s all I can tell you.”
There was disappointment and frustration in her mother’s voice. “I can get more from the evening news, Lydia.”
When she was small, her mother had been her first confidante. They would talk all the time. But she wasn’t small anymore. On an intellectual level, she knew her mother understood why she couldn’t say anything. It was the heart that gave them both trouble.
For a second her thoughts sidelined to the surgeon who had pushed her out of the operating room. Who had insisted on stitching her up. She forced her mind back to the conversation.
“They’re at liberty to talk, Mom, I’m not. They don’t have a possible case to jeopardize.”
She heard her mother sigh. Louise Wakefield Evans had been both the daughter and the wife of a policeman. She, better than anyone, knew about procedures that had to be followed.
Still, she said, “I hate being shut out this way, Lydia.”
Lydia shifted in the tub, then quickly sat up. She’d nearly gotten the bandage wet.
“I’m not shutting you out, Mom. I’m shutting evidence in.” The water was turning cool. “Mom, I’m turning pruney, I’d better go.”
Her mother knew when to take her cue. “All right. Good night, Lydia. I love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
Before