Pretty Girls Dancing(104)
“You’re a clever man, Agent Foster.”
Mark pressed his body against the wall of the family room that bordered the hall, crawling until he had a clean view of the bedroom door.
“But I have too much faith in the scientists in our state crime lab to believe they didn’t find DNA evidence with Kelsey’s body. I took such great pains planting it.”
He couldn’t fire into the bedroom knowing there was an innocent victim inside. But he could draw the man out. Rising, he called, “You mean that hair? A little too obvious for someone of your talents, wasn’t it?” And then he stepped around the corner and dove into the hallway, a bullet zinging over his head.
“I had to be obvious.” The door opened as Mark was scrabbling for the cover the kitchen would provide. Sims emerged, rifle pointed. He fired a shot that lodged in the woodwork of the counter island as Mark lunged behind it. “The TMK has been outsmarting the BCI for three decades.” His next shot shattered one of the windows in the wall beyond Mark. “And justice must be served.”
Mark squeezed off two shots. Heard a slight grunt of pain and hoped that meant he’d wounded the man. “That’s what I’m here for, Sims. Justice. And it doesn’t much matter to me whether you go out the door in cuffs or in a body bag.”
“You think you can come to my home and disrupt my family?” Fury throbbed in the man’s voice. “You have a small son, don’t you, Agent? It’s a shame that he’ll soon be fatherless.”
Nicky. There was a quick stab of panic, even as Mark realized what the man was doing. Introducing Mark’s personal life to divert him from the present. Destroy his focus. And for a moment, it worked. The faces of his wife and son swam across his mind. His heart clenched at the thought of not seeing them again. But if Sims thought he could distract Mark, he was wrong. Thoughts of what he had to lose merely solidified his resolve to take the man down by whatever means possible.
Sims spun into the room, releasing a volley of shots that splintered the cupboards behind Mark. Jagged slivers of wood sped through the air like tiny missiles, several lodging in him. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he remained silent. Listening. Where was Sims now? Had he ducked back into the hallway, or advanced into the kitchen? There was a slight sound. Glass crunching beneath a shoe. It was enough to peg the man’s position in the room. Mark silently slid in the opposite direction, guessing Sims’s intent. He’d round the corner of the island, expecting to find his quarry. But by the time he did, Mark would be behind him. And the next time Mark fired, he vowed grimly, it’d be a kill shot.
“Drop your weapon, Sims!” A woman’s voice rang out.
The man whirled to face the kitchen entrance. “Get down!” Mark shouted as he stood, sending a shot to the man’s shoulder. Sims’s weapon sagged. But not before he fired in Sloane’s direction. Her bullet caught him in the leg, and he fell back against the refrigerator. Slid slowly to the floor. They both approached the man carefully, Sloane kicking the rifle away while Mark, his weapon still trained on the man, quickly frisked him. No other weapons. But there was a small ring of keys in his pocket. Mark confiscated them and looked at Sloane. “The last time you provided backup you had a better sense of timing.”
“I was waiting for you to draw him away from the front door.”
Switching his attention to Sims, Mark demanded, “Where’s Whitney DeVries?”
The man grimaced, clutching his leg. “Dead. You’re too late, Agent Foster. BCI has always been a step behind.”
Too late. A hot ball of dread twisted in his belly. God help him, if it were true, Mark knew he’d never forgive himself.
The man is an accomplished liar, Mark reminded himself. “I’m sure you won’t mind if I check for myself.” He caught Sloane’s eye. “I’ll see to his wife.”
“I’ve got this.” Sloane’s eyes were hard, her legs slightly spread. Sims was a dead man if he so much as moved. “I called the local sheriff when the first shot was fired.”
First, Mark went to the bathroom he’d seen earlier and returned with an armful of towels. He reholstered his weapon so he could bend and wrap one around the man’s leg wound. Another was wadded against Sim’s shoulder. Then, the man’s keys in one hand, he rose and drew his weapon again before making his way cautiously to the man’s bedroom.
Nudging the door wide with his foot, Mark switched on the light switch and took in the scene. The shade from the bedside lamp was off. The lightbulb had been unscrewed. It probably accounted for the shards of glass on the floor, surrounding a book there. His gaze traveled to the woman crouched in the middle of the bed, one cheek aflame with the imprint of a palm. Mark recalled the earlier thud he’d heard. The tinkle of breaking glass. Sims’s obvious temper. His “wife” had been trying to call for help.
He entered farther into the room, eyes trained on the woman. “Betsy Graves?”
Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth. The croak that emerged sounded more animal than human. She raised one hand to her throat. Gave a jerky nod.
“Betsy.” His voice gentled. “You’re going home.”
A fat tear slid down her cheek. She remained still while he quickly frisked her for a weapon he already knew she wouldn’t have. He may have had thirty years to indoctrinate her, but Sims didn’t trust her enough to leave an unlocked kitchen cupboard or drawer. Up close Mark could see the dark roots in the part of her long, gray hair. Her mouth was bracketed with creases of pain, but she was clearly decades younger than Sims had tried to make her appear.