Second Honeymoon

Chapter 68

I FROZE, MY body holding perfectly still for a few seconds. Those seconds felt like a lifetime. Or was it that I felt like my lifetime only had a few seconds left?

If I had been anywhere away from home, I would already have been doing the world’s fastest deep knee bend to reach for my shin holster.

But that baby, and, more important, the 9mm Beretta it was holding, was sitting somewhere in my bedroom upstairs, along with my wallet, pocket change, and a half-eaten roll of Pep O Mint Life Savers.

Now what?

It was the next best thing. Lunging to my right, I grabbed the closest handle from the block of Wüsthof knives next to the stove and spun around with my arm cocked, ready to throw.

Again, I froze.

Good thing, too. Otherwise she probably wouldn’t have done the same—and she was the one with the gun.

“FBI!” she shouted, collapsing into the crouch position they teach you your first year. Smaller target, more vital organs shielded. Only when she saw that she had the upper hand did she reach for her badge. Even from twenty feet away I knew it was legit.

“Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me!” I said, lowering the knife. I exhaled so heavily I could’ve blown up a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade balloon.

Her exhale was just as big. A Rocky to my Bullwinkle. “My God, I could’ve shot you!” she said, lowering her gun.

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

I nodded at the TV. The CNN anchor was back on the screen, as were the same four words: “John O’Hara serial killer.”

The second she saw it she rolled her eyes. They were green, I couldn’t help noticing, and about as attractive as the rest of her. Interesting, though. With her hair pulled back and minimal makeup, I could tell she was trying her best not to advertise her looks. Just the opposite, actually.

“I’m John O’Hara,” I said, acknowledging what we both saw on the screen. “And you are?”

“Special Agent Brubaker,” she said. “Sarah.” She holstered her Glock 23. “You thought I was—”

“About to make me the fifth victim, yeah,” I said. “Wait, how did you get—”

We were officially finishing each other’s sentences. “I rang the doorbell but no one answered. I came around back, the patio door was open…you didn’t hear the doorbell?”

“No one can—it’s broken,” I said. “Gee, maybe I should get that fixed, huh?”

She started to laugh, but it wasn’t on account of my sarcasm.

“What?” I asked. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said, looking at the counter in front of me.

I glanced down to see the badass blade that I was ready to throw at her like some ninja warrior. Yeah, real badass. Way to go, O’Hara. It was a three-inch paring knife.

I shrugged. “Not too impressive, huh?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve seen smaller,” she said. “Besides, it’s not the size but how you use it, right?”

She was funny, too. “Do women actually believe that?” I asked.

“No, not really.”

“Ouch,” I said. “So you really are here to hurt me.”

“Ah, there it is,” she said, pointing.

“What’s that?”

“False modesty. Self-deprecating humor. Your file says you’re an expert at it.”

“Really? What else does it say?” I asked.

“Tons of really interesting stuff, at least the parts I’m cleared to read,” she said. “In fact, that’s why I’m here.”

“To discuss my file?”

“No. To help you.”

“The Bureau already has me seeing a shrink.”

“I know. But he can’t do for you what I can,” she said.

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“Keep you alive.”

I stopped and stared into those green eyes of hers. “Okay. I think we’ve just hit on a common interest we have.”