Frost Line Read online

  “Not likely, but the only way we can be certain is to ask Elijah.”

  “No,” she said again. “We can find Robert Markham, and ask him. If I can touch him, I’ll know.”

  “You’d read him without his consent?”

  “Under these circumstances—yes. If there’s a price I have to pay for breaking the rules, I’ll pay it, and gladly, for Elijah.”

  He stood and framed her face with his big hands, intently studying her features. “You are Strength—can he not draw from you?”

  She sighed. “Perhaps, but he’s so young. He deserves every moment of happiness he can have for the rest of his life, to balance this. If I can take some of the burden from him, I will.”

  After another moment he drew her close to him, his big hands hot on her back, wrapping her in his scent and strength and giving her a sense of being protected. With wonder, she realized that no one ever before had protected her; she hadn’t needed it, living her pampered and secure life on Aeonia. She hadn’t truly known adversity of any kind until Elijah had pulled her here to Seven. He was just a little kid, and in his short life he’d already known more horror and pain than she’d known in her own unending years. She felt … humbled.

  “We can’t give him more pain than what he’s already endured,” she said into Caine’s broad shoulder.

  “No,” he said gently. “We can’t.”

  It was well after dark before Derek could safely manage a face-to-face with the senator. The meeting hadn’t been easy, not to plan or to execute. Derek had watched a while, before making his move. He had to be sure the senator wasn’t being followed. Yet.

  A friendly contact with the Lawrenceville police, a uniformed cop who was happy to take on the occasional legitimate security job Derek threw his way, had spilled the beans that the senator was a “person of interest.” It was juicy gossip, exciting stuff, and the cop had no idea what significance it had for Derek. That tidbit hadn’t hit the news yet, but it would. Once it did, there was no way in hell Derek would be able to get close to the man even if he wanted to; the best plan was to make his move now.

  Markham had—probably unknowingly—helped his case by dumping the body in a different county from the one in which he’d committed the murder. There was always red tape in those cases, the police department from a town in one county and the sheriff in another comparing penis sizes and blustering over whose case it was. If they managed to connect the senator to the victim, as it looked like they would, the GBI—the good ole Georgia Bureau of Investigation—would be called in, too. One more big penis to throw into the mix. If nothing else, all the measuring would slow the process.

  The abandoned building near an industrial park south of Atlanta was perfect for their meeting. Once upon a time something had been made here—textiles of some kind, if his memory didn’t fail him. Socks? Flags? T-shirts? Like it mattered. The jobs that had once made this a thriving mill had gone away years ago.

  Even on a Monday night, the place was deserted. There wasn’t another car, other than Derek’s and the senator’s, for a mile or more.

  He was glad the cold weather gave him an opportunity to wear his gloves without arousing suspicion. Details were important. Details could mean the difference between life and death.

  Derek arrived five minutes late. The asshat had turned on a light in what had once been an administrative office near the main door. Might as well hang out a Come and Get Me sign.

  Even though he was sure they were alone, Derek surveyed the area—the hallway, the nearby offices, the dark hole at the end of the hallway where old rusty machines sat unused—before opening the door to the small office and joining the pale, pacing senator.

  Markham spun on Derek. “The police contacted my office! I’m supposed to call some detective in the morning to arrange a meeting! What the hell?” He acted as if this was Derek’s fault, instead of his own. “Tell me the kid is dead. Tell me you found the little shit.”

  Derek remained calm. “It’s not the little shit who’s been talking to the police.”

  Markham’s hands fisted. “Who, then? How did this happen?”

  The truth, at least for now. “A neighbor saw you.”

  Markham stumbled back a step or two. “I was seen Friday night?”

  “I don’t know if it was Friday or earlier. All I know is that you’re a person of interest in this case.”

  The single, harsh light the senator had turned on made him look pasty green and sickly. “What does that mean? Am I a suspect?”

  Probably. Almost surely. But Derek didn’t want to be the one to share that news. “I don’t know. They connected you to the dead woman, though. Stay calm. Act innocent. Play dumb.” Not a stretch, he thought. Playing smart would be an Oscar-worthy performance.

  He wondered what kind of evidence the senator might’ve left for the crime scene investigators. It was unlikely he’d made a clean getaway. “You never did say … how did you kill her?”

  Again, those clenched fists. “I choked her with my bare hands.”

  Well, shit. It was an imperfect science, dependent on the environment and the condition of the body, but fingerprints could be taken from skin. “No gloves?”

  “No. This isn’t some television show where the cops can find a hair or a skin cell or a … a …”

  “Fingerprint?” Derek supplied.

  “Yeah,” Markham muttered. He turned away, paced some more, then spun around to face Derek again. “There’s no other choice. You’ll have to kill this neighbor.”

  Derek sighed, tired of this already. “I don’t know which one saw you.” That was the truth. While he had contacts in Atlanta, and Lawrenceville, and Marietta, and in towns and cities all around who would spill a bit of news now and then, they weren’t going to hand over all the details.

  “Then kill them all,” Markham breathed. “All of them. Dead people can’t testify.”

  The direction was so coolly delivered and so irrational, Derek realized the senator was a lost cause.

  “I can’t do that,” he answered.

  “You will,” Markham said, and then he foolishly added, “If I go down, I’m taking you with me. I assume Sammy is good and dead?”

  Derek nodded. “He is.”

  “Don’t think I won’t make a deal with the cops, if that’s what it takes.”

  Derek plunged his gloved hands into the pockets of his overcoat. He shrugged his shoulders and pulled out the length of thin nylon rope he’d stuffed in there. “I was afraid you’d say something like that.” Actually, he’d kind of been expecting it, hence the rope. Never underestimate stupid.

  Markham reeled back, his pasty complexion turning white. Clumsily, panic making him stumble, he turned to run, to try to run. He’d have been better off lunging toward Derek, instead of conveniently turning his back.

  Derek crossed his wrists, looped the cord around Markham’s neck, then straightened his arms to close the loop. The force yanked the senator back, but Derek was careful not to yank so hard the senator fell. Markham gagged and clawed at the rope, then at Derek’s gloved hands. Derek pulled harder, tightening the loop, cutting off the senator’s air. Markham flailed, completely panic-stricken, which made him even more ineffective.

  Now that Derek knew how Elijah’s mother had been killed, this method of execution seemed appropriate. He pulled the cord tight. Tighter. Markham was a small man, and had no chance to escape. He attempted to fight, to work himself free. He dropped, which only made the rope pull tighter. He pulled away, but couldn’t go far. Derek held on, jerking tighter and tighter, until Markham hung limply by the loop around his neck. Still Derek held him, calmly counting off seconds, because it wouldn’t do to let the bastard somehow revive. The brain started dying in four minutes. Derek held him for seven, which didn’t seem like a long time unless you were holding someone’s dead weight with your arms, in which case seven minutes was a hell of a long time.

  When the senator was good and dead, face dusky, not breathing, heart