Safe Harbor Read online

  "Both parents decide to kill Hannah? This is in retaliation for the kid?" It didn't wash. "Albert Werner couldn't have expected to get away with it. The cameras were on him. He had to know that. It was too public unless he wanted to make a statement. He attacked her like he wanted to destroy her, destroy her beauty--and then her life. The first blows weren't killing blows. They were all about disfigurement."

  Just saying the words aloud brought up the stark images his mind just couldn't forget. His gut twisted. The knife slashing viciously, brutally, over and over, ripping Hannah to pieces. Bile rose. Sweat broke out. "The doctor said the first few strokes were deliberate and precise, but shallow, cutting across her face, neck, breasts, waist and stomach before he began stabbing deep enough to kill her." He fought back waves of nausea, trying to keep his voice, trying not to let it be personal, to think of the victim as Hannah--his Hannah. "I'd like to consult with a friend of mine, a psychiatrist, show him what you have on the attackers and ask his opinion, because it just doesn't add up for me."

  It seemed more likely to him that they were programmed, maybe hypnotized or magic had been used--but how could he tell the detective that?

  "Not for me either," Detective Stewart admitted. "Because if the husband is dead, the wife has to worry about who's going to watch over the kid. Why come to the hospital and risk killing her with you in the room? It doesn't make sense."

  "Are you checking to see if the Werners belonged to the Reverend's little flock? Maybe the conversation was a little different than what the Reverend is telling you."

  Stewart nodded. "Oh, I'm certain it was different. I've interviewed the Reverend a few times now, and I think the man is a crackpot--a charismatic one--but still a crackpot. He's been recruiting young girls off the street to take back home with him. Says he's trying to save them, but I'm not buying it."

  "Why'd you pull him in for an interview?" Jonas asked curiously.

  "There was an attack on a young prostitute. She's barely fifteen. Someone nearly beat her to death. Did just about anything they could to her. Her friends swear it was the Reverend. Of course he has an airtight alibi. Members of his church claim he was with them all night praying."

  "But you don't believe it."

  "Not for a minute. But the girl's too scared to talk. I think the Reverend can get his people to say or do just about anything for him. I think they give him their kids and their money. And if there's a connection between him and the Werners, it wouldn't surprise me. I think the Reverend could talk someone into murder as well."

  "He's from our part of the country," Jonas admitted, "and we've been trying to nail him for a long time. He owns a lot of land and keeps it locked up tight. Once the girls are brought there, no one sees them again. Unfortunately he finds the kids no one is interested in, so he can get away with it. You think he might order one of his followers to do a slash job on Hannah?"

  "He's capable," Stewart said. "And whoever went after the prostitute cut her up pretty bad--with a knife. Her face is never going to be the same."

  "Can you work on her, see if she'll identify him?"

  "She's already disappeared. The moment she was out of the hospital, she was long gone."

  "Do you think she ran, or someone grabbed her?"

  Stewart shrugged. "She's a street rat, who knows? But even if her friends are wrong and it wasn't the Reverend, he's trouble. He's slick, though. He sure can suck you in when he's talking. He sounds very cool until he begins to rant fanatically about women and how they're the downfall of good men and he has to save them from themselves."

  "So what do you have on Werner's wife?"

  "Not much. She doesn't have so much as a parking ticket. Highly respected as a vet tech, fellow workers as well as the neighbors all liked her. She got the drug from work. They use it to euthanize animals. Everyone who knew them seemed genuinely shocked that either of the Werners would be involved in a killing. The husband doesn't really have much of a history either. Not anything to give me a heads-up on him. A few tickets, one fistfight."

  Jonas tapped his fingers on the small end table in the waiting room, scowling as he concentrated. More and more it seemed as if the parents might have been programmed to kill. But why? And for whom? "Have you interviewed their daughter?"

  "She's pretty broken up. I couldn't get much out of her. She knew of Hannah Drake and admired her, but the entire world knows Ms. Drake's face. I didn't notice she was overly fanatical about her, and like I said, when we searched the house, there were pictures of movie stars, not models, in her room. We found two magazines in the house with Ms. Drake in them, but that's not unusual either. Her face is on the cover of a lot of magazines."

  The detective couldn't stop the quick, curious glances he kept sending toward Hannah through the glass. "I think Ms. Drake is pretty safe from the kid and there isn't any family left to come after her."

  Fighting back the urge to deck Stewart, Jonas shoved his hands through his hair and followed the detective's gaze. To his astonishment, Hannah was looking back at him. His heart jumped. "Would you please keep me apprised of every aspect of the investigation? As soon as possible, we'll be moving Hannah closer to her home."

  "I'll need to speak with her. The doctors this morning said she had improved dramatically."

  "Not dramatically enough for you to speak to her. I'll let you know if she says anything or if she's able to be interviewed."

  The detective nodded, and moved away, glancing once more back at Hannah as he did so.

  Jonas muttered curses to himself as he walked back into the room, switching immediately to a smile. "You woke up, Hannah. You've been sleeping for a few days now. You scared the hell out of me." He sat in the chair, his heart pounding, trying to look casual and upbeat.

  She looked a mummy, swathed in gauze from her hips to her cheeks. Her face, what little he could see of it, was swollen and bruised. Her skin was so white she seemed to fade into the bandages and sheets around her. Her gaze was locked on his face, and if he wasn't mistaken, there were tears close.

  Jonas leaned forward and pressed his palm to the top of her head, providing contact and warmth. "Everything's all right, baby. All you have to do is lie there and get better. You're getting stronger." He would never get the sight of her like this out of his mind. Never forget the panic sweeping through him. He'd never get over the terrible bone-deep grief. He couldn't close his eyes without seeing the knife. The blood. He had never felt so helpless--so useless and impotent--in his life. He should have been there. God in heaven. I should have been there.

  Jonas.

  He heard the fear in her voice, the echo of it in his own mind. His gut clenched in reaction. He fought back his physical response and forced himself to smile at her in reassurance. "I know, honey. He can't hurt you now. No one is going to hurt you again. How are you feeling? Are you in pain?"

  "My throat." It hurts to talk. My throat is raw. I hurt everywhere. Even my mouth.

  The doctor had said her voice would never be the same. "The nurse can give you more pain meds."

  No. I just want to go home. Take me home. I feel like a freak show. Everyone stares, even the nurses.

  "We're going to move you to a private room, which we can much more easily guard. We'll get you out of here as soon as possible."

  I can't remember very much.

  He used his thumb to brash away a teardrop on her cheek. Her lashes were wet and spiky and so heart-breaking he wanted to gather her close and shelter her against everything and everyone. "You don't have to remember. We're all here with you and we're going to get you home."

  "What do I look like?" She raised a bandaged hand and touched the swath of gauze around her face.

  A shadow fell across them and Jonas turned just in time to see a man dressed as an orderly snap a picture of Hannah with his cell phone. Swearing, Jonas leapt up and caught the man as he was hurrying away. Yanking the phone from him, he dropped it on the floor and stomped on it.

  "Hey! You can't do tha
t."

  "You're lucky I don't have you arrested." Jonas noted the name tag. "George Hodkins. I'm going after your job for this."

  "It's worth a lot of money, man. I'm going to school and I need it."

  "Go to hell." Jonas shoved him away and kicked the broken phone hard enough that it hit the wall. He signaled to the charge nurse, pushing the man toward her. "He's trying to profit by taking pictures of your patient. As soon as you take care of this, I'd like to get her moved to another room where we can protect her better."

  The nurse scowled at the man. "Yes, of course, Mr. Harrington." She switched her attention to the orderly. "How dare you invade one of my patients' privacy?"

  Jonas left them and returned to Hannah. That had been too easy. Had the man had a gun instead of a camera, he might have gotten a shot off. He couldn't protect Hannah here. He needed to get her someplace where he could control all movement around her. As soon as possible they had to transport her back home. Joley could provide a plane. He sank back into the chair beside her, his mind racing with details.

  You can't get so upset, Jonas. There are going to be pictures. The horrible little rag magazines must be having a field day. She suppressed a sob, but not before he caught it in his mind as she turned her head away from him.

  "Screw the reporters, Hannah. I can deal with them. We're making arrangements to get you home as soon as the hospital gives us the word. Your sisters and aunts are taking turns coming in to help speed your recovery throughout the day so no one gets worn out, but they can heal you much faster at home. We'll be out of here in no time." And he would be able to control the security around her much more easily.

  The brisk tap on the door had Hannah cringing. Her agent, Greg Simpson, brushed past Jonas without a glance and leaned down to air kiss the top of Hannah's head. "They wouldn't let me in until today, Hannah. This is terrible. So terrible. Who would do such a brutal, unforgivable thing? The reporters won't leave me alone. I've had to give so many interviews, I'm losing my voice."

  Hannah didn't turn her head back toward her agent, but lay very still, almost frozen. Jonas felt her heightened tension and distress and reached around Simpson to take her bandage-wrapped hand. She curled her fingers around his.

  "Say no."

  Simpson whirled around as if just noticing Jonas's presence. "What?" he asked stiffly, frowning at the hand-holding.

  "You could say no to the press conferences. Tell them to go to hell. They're circling like vultures."

  "Of course they are. Hannah is known and loved the world over. Everyone wants to know how she is--if she's going to live--if she can take her place in the fashion world again. It's big news. You must have seen all the flowers and cards and well-wishers."

  Jonas felt a small tremor run through Hannah. "She's very loved," he admitted, wanting her to know he was aware of the adulation from around the world.

  "So of course she needs to say a few words to reassure her fans. I can select the reporters who have been good to her, the caring ones..."

  Hannah shuddered and made a small sound of dismay in his mind. She didn't turn her head or look at her agent.

  Jonas stood up, forcing Simpson to back up a step. "So you're here to check on whether Hannah is up to a press conference. No, she's not. She won't be talking to reporters. And we're not bringing photographers into the room either."

  "There's no need to get angry, Mister... Who are you anyway?"

  "I'm Hannah's fiance." When Hannah's mind reached out to his in shocked reaction, Jonas bent to bring her fingers to his mouth. Don't worry, baby, I'm not going to carry you off yet. I'm just getting rid of this worm for you.

  For the first time, there was a ghost of a smile answering in his mind. He is a bit of a worm. But he's the real deal when it comes to getting the jobs.

  He's a publicity hound.

  "Hannah doesn't have a fiance. I would have known about it."

  "And somehow the news would have gotten leaked to the press."

  "The press is part of Hannah's life." Simpson looked suddenly sad, mouth drooping, eyes like a lost puppy's. "Although I can't see how our Hannah will ever recover the incredible good looks that have made her into such a star. My God." Both hands fluttered, went to his face in distress. "He slashed her to ribbons."

  Hannah's body jerked as if someone had shot her. Her reaction was physical as well as mental, pulling away from Jonas, refusing to look at either of them.

  Simpson paced across the room, avoiding Jonas as he frowned and rubbed his palms up and down his chest. "I'll have to do damage control on the accounts. There're so many of them. The cosmetic company, the perfume. We were in negotiations for a major chain with a brand of clothing. I'll have to get someone geared up for a takeover or we'll lose it all. You have people counting on you. Have you spoken with the plastic surgeon yet? Was he able to put your face back together when they operated?"

  "Get. The. Hell. Out." Jonas enunciated each word between clenched teeth.

  "No. No. You don't understand. You think I'm not compassionate, but that's my job to put aside emotions and keep Hannah's business going. I'm responsible for cleaning up this mess."

  "You're responsible for getting her into it," Jonas snarled, knowing he was being unfair. "She shouldn't have been there in the first place. Get the hell out of here and leave us alone."

  "I'll be back, Hannah, when you're more yourself and we can talk about this," Simpson said as he backed out of the room.

  "Damn little toad," Jonas hissed under his breath. He sank back into his chair. "All he's thinking about is his commission."

  Hannah didn't turn her face back toward him. Her fingers opened and her hand slipped from his. His chest tightened and he forced back a wave of fear mixed with anger. His emotions were all over the place and he had to rein them in if he was going to do her any good. He straddled the chair and watched her for a moment, the stiff line of her body, her averted face.

  "Are you worried about the things he said? Scars? Losing your career?" He hadn't worried about anything other than her life. He wanted her alive any way he could get her.

  Aren't you?

  He bit back his first answer and analyzed the voice in his head. The advantage of telepathy was that the voice carried emotion with it, and she was hurt, but mostly terribly frightened. And she was apprehensive about how she looked.

  "You're not your body, Hannah. You never have been to me. I don't know about the rest of the world, all I can tell you is that I love you--the person. The one who makes me laugh and makes me so angry I could shake her. You make me feel alive. You make me feel cherished. I never had that, you know. My home wasn't like yours. Now, when I come, you have tea and cookies and half the time a meal waiting just for me. You always make me feel important--and that I belong." He cleared his throat, feeling a little foolish spilling his guts to her when she wasn't looking at him. "You make me feel like a man should feel--well--when you aren't mixing me the hell up."

  In spite of her fear, Hannah responded, turning back to him, her blue gaze colliding with his, and the impression of a small smile in his mind. You mix me up, too. Thank you. It's frightening not knowing what I look like.

  "Can't Libby heal scar tissue?"

  Do you think she's a miracle worker?

  Her question hung there. Ridiculous. Poignant. Ludicrous. And then he felt the burst of her laughter breaking against the walls of his mind and he wanted to weep. The sound was soft and true and so perfectly Hannah--his Hannah. The one few others knew. He needed to hold her to him. His arms ached to gather her close, but he was afraid of hurting her.

  Hannah reached up and brushed at his cheek. You have tears in your eyes, Jonas. Don't look so sad. I'm sad enough for both of us.

  He swallowed the lump threatening to choke him and caught her hand, bringing it to his chest. Her fingertips were the only actual skin he could reach and he rubbed the pads of his own fingers back and forth over them, needing the contact with her. "Are you sad thinking you might have
scars?"

  She'd been so beautiful, astonishingly so. He could understand it and maybe it would upset him when he got over his fear of her being murdered right before his eyes--not this lifetime--or the next--but sometime.

  I didn't know anyone could hate me so much. What could I have done that would make someone want to hurt me this way? I don't understand.

  He brought her fingers to his mouth, kissing her, nibbling with his teeth, fighting back the waves of nausea and anger and stark, raw fear at the thought of a madman viciously stabbing her. "Nothing, Hannah. Absolutely nothing. He was mentally deranged. There's no explanation."

  She swallowed hard and tested her voice. "There has to be." Her voice was low and husky, still melodious, but a whisper of sound.

  That little whisper traveled right down his spine and through his body, rocking him, the way only Hannah could. There was nothing sexy about lying in a hospital bed, covered in bandages, but her voice, her eyes, the whisper down his spine, brought his body to instant alert. "I'm so fucking glad you're alive, Hannah."

  Hannah blinked at him, shocked by the burst of emotion pouring out of him when he was usually so reserved, so careful not to swamp her.

  "I'm here." It was all she could think to say when he was so torn up. She could feel the pain in him and it surprised her that he allowed her to feel it.

  He shook his head. "It was too close, Hannah. Too close. If Prakenskii hadn't been there..."

  Her brows drew together. I remember him now. He was chasing me. Through the crowd. I was afraid for Joley. She made a sound of distress and looked up at him. He asked me if she was a spell-singer.

  Jonas shook his head and glanced back toward the nurse. I don't know what that is. What's the significance? Because just the thought upset her. He could see she was becoming agitated and he forced air through his lungs in an effort to try to calm her down. "Relax, baby, nothing is going to happen to Joley. I've got round-the-clock guards on her. She's too upset about you to be mad at me, either, so that's a plus."