Page 92 of Long Past Deadly

“If we can.” He walked Alanna to the elevator.

“I like her.”

Quaid gazed back at Cait. “I like her, too. And not because she personally held my guts together in Afghanistan. She’s good people.”

They had the elevator to themselves. “I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to him.”

“Now or never. Question him like the profiler you are. This isn’t about when you were fifteen. It’s about him. His past could help us.”

“He doesn’t sound good. She’s worried about this staph infection.”

“We’ll have to hope the medication gives him a fighting chance.”

Off the elevator, they noted Whit’s room immediately. Patina and a man she didn’t know were minding the door.

“Boss. Ms. Williams. He’s back from tests.” Patina pushed open the door.

“Thanks, guys.” She took several steps and stopped.

Quaid stepped in behind her and didn’t resist putting a hand on her shoulder.

Whit looked awful. His color was gray, nasal cannulas delivered oxygen through his nose, an IV dripped fluids, and a monitor beeped in a slow rhythm. His eyes were closed. Assessing, Quaid noted the number of bandages. Multiple stab wounds had gone untreated. No wonder he had an infection. He wasn’t blaming Open Door. They’d done what Whit would let them. He couldn’t even be irritated with the man. He didn’t live his life, have his trauma, or understand the choices he’d had to make.

Alanna stepped forward, and he let his hand drop.

&&&&&&&&&&

Alanna stood lost in the first moment she’d met Whit. He’d been dressed in old, but clean clothes – jeans and a gray plaid shirt with a weapon bulge, a full backpack, a long beard mixed with gray, and piercing blue eyes. He’d advised her to stick with him and moved her away from a bad situation with no fuss. From then on, he’d frequently sought her out until she gave in and stayed with him. Without him, she wouldn’t have finished school. But Quaid was right. Her questions couldn’t be mired in those dark, desperate days after Mercer assaulted her. They should be based on the scope of all she knew. She was different. Whit was different. And Mercer was off his rocker.

Quaid stood at her back, and the temptation was strong to lean on him. Dig deep, girl.

She stepped to his bed and studied the lines of his face, bruises that were taking too long to fade, and hair grayed with age. His eyes popped open. The blue-piercing, intelligent gaze was there, honed by maturity and still fierce.

She rejected her first question – why?

“You shouldn’t be here.” His raspy whisper rattled in his chest. “Too dangerous.”

“FBI agent. Danger is my profession. As I told you yesterday, he’s hunting me, too, and I’m going to use every asset I have to take him out.”

“He likes control. But he doesn’t operate in the states.”

She pulled a chair closer. “Not true. He’s tried for you, tried for me, tried for Quaid.” She pointed at the door. “And he’s killed here before.”

“That was a long time ago.” He coughed, groaned in pain, and turned away.

She didn’t want to discuss her methodology or go deeper into facts they already had. She needed Iraq. “I’ve studied his service record. Yours, too. Plus, I have access to a Skiff full of information on his assassinations over the last fifteen years. Military personnel. World leaders. But you know something else, don’t you? Tell me. It might help me find him.”

“Not talking about that.”

“But it’s living in your memories. Popping out at you when you least want it to. What happened in Iraq 2005?”

Whit’s mouth dropped open, then snapped closed, and his lips firmed. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.” How to convince him? Maybe she had to talk about methodology.

“I don’t think Esme was his first kill. His serial-killing habits started before his military service. I think you guessed or can prove it.” Whit turned away.

“Yes, I’m calling it what it was. Serial-killing. We’re searching those records, but you had a conflict with him from the very beginning of your service, and again in Iraq in 2005, you made a report that has been partially redacted. What was it?”