“She did seem rather put out.”
Adam dialed Isabel’s number and stood waiting while it rang. “Who else called?”
“A Dr. Herbert Esterhaus. About two hours ago.”
“Esterhaus?” Adam glanced up sharply. “Why?”
“He wouldn’t say. Something about the laboratory, I assume. He did imply it was somewhat urgent.”
“Where is he?”
“That’s his number there, on the notepad.”
Adam hung up and dialed the number Thomas had written down. It kept ringing.
“He said he’d be home all day,” said Thomas. “Perhaps he stepped out for a moment.”
Adam glanced at Kat. It was a look, nothing more, but she saw in his eyes a flicker of apprehension. Something’s happened. He feels it, too.
Adam hung up. “Let’s drive by his house.”
“But you’ve only just arrived,” said Thomas.
“It doesn’t feel right. Herb wouldn’t call me at home unless it was important.”
Resignedly, Thomas reached back into the closet for their jackets. “Really, Mr. Q. All this rushing around.”
Adam smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “At least you won’t have us underfoot, hm?”
Thomas merely sighed and walked them to the door.
Just as they climbed into Adam’s car, a Mercedes pulled into the driveway, its tires spitting gravel. Isabel stuck her head out the window. “Adam!” she called. “Have you forgotten about the Wyatts?”
“Give them my regrets!”
“I thought we were on for this afternoon—”
“Something’s come up. I can’t make it. Look, I’ll call you later, Isabel, all right?”
“But Adam, you—”
Her words were cut off by the roar of the Volvo as Adam and Kat drove off. She was left behind in the driveway, staring in disbelief.
Adam glanced in his mirror at the receding Mercedes. “Damn. How am I going to explain this away?”
“Just tell her what happened,” said Kat. “She already knows what’s going on, doesn’t she?”
“Isabel?” He snorted. “First, Isabel is not equipped to deal with unpleasantness of any sort. It’s not in her sphere of knowledge. Second, she’s not good at keeping secrets. By the time the gossip got down the street and back again, I’d be a major drug dealer and Maeve would have three heads and be practicing voodoo.”
“You mean … she doesn’t know about Maeve?”
“She knows I have a stepdaughter. But she never asks about her. And I don’t fill her in on the gory details.”
“Isn’t a problem kid something you’d want to sort of mention to your girlfriend?”
“Girlfriend?” He laughed.
“Well, what do you call her then?”
“A social companion. Suitable for all occasions.”
“Oh.” She looked out the window. “I guess that covers everything.”
To her surprise, he reached over and squeezed her thigh. “Not quite everything.”
She frowned at his laughing eyes. “What does it leave out?”
“Oh, street fights, exploding houses, the sort of occasions she wouldn’t appreciate.”
“I’m not sure I appreciate them.”
He turned his gaze back to the road. “I’ve never slept with her, you know,” he said.
That statement was so unexpected, Kat was struck silent for a moment. She stared at his unruffled profile. “Why did you tell me that?”
“I thought you should know.”
“Well, thank you for satisfying my burning curiosity.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“And what am I supposed to do with this knowledge?”
He winked. “File it away in that amazing brain of yours.”
She shook her head and laughed. “I don’t know what to make of you, Quantrell. Sometimes I think you’re flirting with me. Other times, I think it’s all in my head.”
“Why wouldn’t I? You know I’m attracted to you.”
“Why?”
He sighed. “You’re not supposed to say, Why? You’re supposed to say, And I’m attracted to you.”
“Nevertheless, why?”
He glanced at her in surprise. “Is it so difficult to believe? That I’d find you attractive?”
“I think it’s because I’m a novelty,” she said. “Because I’m not like your other … companions.”
“True.”
“Which means it’d never work.”
“Such a pessimist,” he said with a sigh. He gave her thigh another squeeze, flashed her another grin, and looked back at the road.
Rockbrook was one of those anonymous suburbs that lie on the outskirts of any large city. It was a white-bread world of trim lawns, two cars in every garage, yards strewn with kids’ bicycles. The house where Herbert Esterhaus lived had no bicycles in the yard, and only one vehicle in the carport, but in every other way it was typical of the neighborhood—a tract home, neatly kept, with a brick walkway in front and azaleas huddled on either side of the door.
No one seemed to be home. They rang the bell, knocked, but there was no answer, and the front door was locked.
“Now what?” said Kat. She glanced up the street. A block away, two boys tossed a basketball against their garage door. The buzz of a lawn mower echoed from some unseen backyard.
They circled around to the carport. “His car’s here,” Adam noted. “And that looks like today’s paper on the front seat. So he’s driven it today.”
“Then where is he?” said Kat.
Adam went to the side door of the house. It was unlocked. He poked his head inside and called out: “Herb? Are you home?”
There was no answer.
“Maybe we should check inside,” suggested Kat.
They stepped into the kitchen. Again, Adam called out: “Herb?” A silence seemed to hang over the house. And the sense of dead air, as though no window, no door, had been opened for a very long time.
Kat spotted a set of keys on the kitchen counter. That struck her as odd, that a man would leave the house without his keys.
“Maybe you should call Thomas,” she said. “Esterhaus might have left you another message.”
“It’s a thought, but first let’s check the living room.” He headed out of the kitchen.
Seconds later Kat heard him say, “Oh God.”
“Adam?” she called. She left the kitchen and crossed the dining room. Through the living room doorway, she spotted Adam, standing by the couch. He seemed frozen in place, unable to move a muscle. “Adam?”
Slowly he turned to look at her. “It’s … him.”
“What?” She moved across the living room. Only as she rounded the couch did she see the crimson stain soaking the carpet, like some psychiatrist’s nightmare inkblot. Stretched across the blood was an arm, its hand white and clawed.
The hand of Herbert Esterhaus.
THE FLASH OF THE PHOTOGRAPHER’S STROBE made Kat wince. He was a crime lab veteran, and he strode casually around the body, choosing his shots with an almost bored detachment. The repeated camera flashes, the babble of too many people talking at the same time, the whine of yet another siren closing in, left Kat feeling disoriented. She’d been to crime scenes before, had been part of other, equally chaotic gatherings, but this scene was different, this victim was different. He was someone she knew, someone who just yesterday had met her handshake with one of warm flesh. His death was far too close to her, and she felt herself withdrawing into some safe, numb place where she floated on a sea of fatigue.
Only when a familiar voice called to her did her brain snap back into focus. She saw Lou Sykes moving toward them.
“What the hell happened?” he asked.
“It’s Esterhaus,” said Adam. “He phoned me this afternoon. Said he wanted to talk. We came by and …”
Sykes glanced at the dead body sprawled on the couch. “When?”
“We got here around five.”
&n
bsp; “He’s been dead awhile,” murmured Kat. “Probably early afternoon.”
“How do you know?” asked Sykes.
She looked away. “Experience,” she muttered.
The Rockbrook detective approached and greeted Sykes. “Sorry you got dragged over, Lou. I know this one’s technically ours, but they insisted I call you.”
“So what’ve you got?”
“Two bullet wounds in the chest. Took him down fast. No signs of forced entry. No witnesses. ME’ll have to do a look-see, give us an approximate time.”
“Dr. Novak says early afternoon.”
“Yeah, well …” The detective shifted uneasily. “They’re sending over Davis Wheelock.”
Because they’re not about to trust me on this one, thought Kat. The Rockbrook detective was a cautious cop. He couldn’t be sure of Kat’s role in all this. Her status had changed from ME to … what? Witness? Suspect? She could see it in the way he watched her eyes, weighed her every statement.
Now Sykes began to ask questions, the same ones they’d already answered. No, they hadn’t touched anything except the phone. And, briefly, the body—to check vital signs. Events were dissected, over and over. By the time Sykes had finished, Kat was having trouble concentrating. Too many voices were talking in the room, and there were the sounds of the crowd outside, the neighbors, all pressing up against the yellow police line.
Esterhaus’s body, cocooned in a zip-up bag, was wheeled through the front door and out of the house, into a night blazing with the flash of reporters’ cameras.
Adam and Kat followed the EMTs out of the house. It was bedlam outside, cops shouting for everyone to stand back, radios crackling from half a dozen patrol cars. Two TV vans were parked nearby, klieg lights glaring. A reporter thrust a microphone in front of Kat’s face and asked, “Were you the people who found the body?”
“Leave us alone,” said Adam, shoving the microphone away.
“Sir, can you tell us what condition—”
“I said, leave us alone.”
“Hey!” another reporter yelled. “Aren’t you Adam Quantrell? Mr. Quantrell?”
Suddenly the lights were redirected into their eyes. Adam grabbed Kat’s hand and pulled her along in a mad dash for the car.
The instant they were inside, they slammed and locked the doors. Hands knocked at the windows.
Adam started the engine. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he growled, and hit the gas pedal.
Even as they roared away, they could hear the questions being shouted at them.
Kat collapsed back in exhaustion. “I thought they were going to keep us there all night.”
He shot her a worried look. “Are you all right?”
She shivered. “Just cold. And scared. Mostly scared …” She looked at him. “Why did they kill Esterhaus? What is going on, Adam?”
He stared ahead, his gaze locked on the road, his profile hard and white in the darkness. “I wish to God I knew.”
They arrived home to find Thomas waiting for them.
“Mr. Q., the reporters have been calling—”
“Tell them to go to hell,” said Adam, guiding Kat toward the stairs.
“But—”
“You heard what I said.”
“Is that a … literal request?”
“Word for word.”
“Goodness,” said Thomas, sounding uncomfortable. “I don’t know …” He watched them climb up to the second-floor landing. “Is there anything you’ll require, Mr. Q.?” he called.
“A bottle of brandy. And answer the phone, will you?”
Thomas glanced at the telephone, which had begun to ring again. Reluctantly he picked up the receiver. “Quantrell residence.” He listened for a few seconds. Then, drawing himself to his full and dignified height, he said: “Mr. Quantrell wishes to convey the following message: Go to hell.” He hung up, looking strangely satisfied.
“The brandy, Thomas!” called Adam.
“Right away,” said Thomas, heading toward the library.
Adam turned Kat gently toward the bedroom. “Come on,” he whispered. “You look ready to collapse.”
He brought her into his room and sat her down on the bed. He took her hands in his. Her touch was like ice.
Thomas came into the room, bearing a tray with the brandy and two glasses.
“Leave it,” said Adam.
Thomas, ever discreet, nodded and withdrew.
Adam poured a glass and handed it to Kat. She looked blankly at it.
“Just brandy,” he said. “A Quantrell family tradition.”
She took a sip. Closing her eyes tightly, she whispered, “You Quantrells keep fine traditions.”
He reached up and gently brushed a lock of hair off her face. Her skin felt as cool as marble, but the woman beneath was alive and trembling and in need.
“If only I knew,” she said. “If I just knew what I was fighting against. Then I wouldn’t be so afraid.” She looked at him. “That’s what scares me. Not knowing. It makes the whole world seem evil.”
“Not the whole world. There’s me. And I’ll take care of you—”
“Don’t make promises, Adam.”
“I’m not promising. I’m telling you. As long as you need me—”
She pressed her fingers to his lips. “Don’t. Please. You’ll back yourself into a corner. And then you’ll feel guilty when you can’t keep your word.”
He grasped her hand, firmly, fiercely. “Kat—”
“No promises.”
“All right. If that’s what you want, no promises.”
“From either of us. It’s more honest that way.”
“You’ll stay here, though? As long as you need to. Unless … there’s some other place you’d rather go?”
She shook her head.
He felt an intoxicating rush of happiness, of relief, that here was where she wanted to be. With me.
“There’s no other place,” she said softly.
He had not planned to kiss her, but at that moment she looked so badly in need of a kiss that he drew her closer and cupped her face in his hands.
It was only a brushing of lips, a taste of her brandied warmth. No passion, no lust, merely kindness.
And then, like a spark striking dry tinder, something else flared to instant brightness. He saw it in her eyes, and she in his. They stared at each other for a moment in shared wonder. And uncertainty. He wanted badly to kiss her again, but she was so vulnerable, and he knew that if he pressed her, she would yield. She might hate him in the morning, and she would have good reason. That, most of all, was what he didn’t want.
He took a much-needed lungful of fortifying air and pulled away from her. “You can stay here, in my room. It will feel safer.” He rose to leave. “I’ll sleep in yours.”
“Adam?”
“In the morning, we’ll have to talk about what happens next. But tonight—”
“I want you to stay here,” she said. “In this room. With me.”
The last two words came out in barely a whisper. Slowly he settled back down beside her and tried to look beyond the glaze of fear in her eyes. “Are you sure?” he asked softly.
Her answer left no doubt. She reached out to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him against her. Their lips met. Hers were desperate, seeking, and he responded instantly to that unexpected assault with a hunger just as fierce.
He reached out to bury his fingers in her hair. It felt like the mane of a wild animal, crackling and alive. Suddenly she came alive, and all of her fear and exhaustion broke before a swelling tide of desire. Her hair brushed his face, and he inhaled the warm and feral scent of a woman. Such delicious sounds she was making, little whimpers and sighs, as her mouth eagerly met his, again and again.
They tumbled back onto the bed and rolled across the covers. First she was on top, her hair spilling like sheets of silk over his face. Then he was on top, covering her body with his. No passive participant was she; already, he
felt her pressing up against him, her back arching, her body starved for more intimate contact. Fear had made her desperate; he could sense it in her kisses.
He forced himself to pull back. “Kat,” he said. “Look at me.”
She opened her eyes. They had the brief, bright glow of tears.
He took her face in his hands, cradled her cheeks so she could not turn away from him. “What’s wrong?”
“I want you,” was all she said.
“But you’re crying.”
“No, I just want you …”
“And you’re afraid.”
There it was—the briefest of nods, as though she didn’t want to say it. “I’m afraid of everything,” she said. “Everyone. The whole world.”
“Even me?”
She swallowed back another flash of tears. “Especially you,” she whispered.
Long after he’d fallen asleep, Kat lay awake in his arms. They might both be exhausted, but only he was able to sleep untroubled and unafraid.
He wasn’t the one falling in love.
She burrowed closer, wondering about the man who lay beside her. The man who had everything.
Now he has me, as well.
She felt helpless, trapped not only by her own heart, but by circumstances. Rule number one for the independent woman: Never let a man become indispensable. It was the rule she tried to live by, and already she’d violated it.
She looked at Adam and felt yet again that stirring of hunger. And something else, having nothing to do with desire. Tenderness. Joy. She felt pushed and pulled between wanting to believe in love and knowing better.
When she finally did sleep, it was like falling into some small, dreamless space. A prison without windows.
She was the first to awaken. Sunlight was shining through the curtains. Adam slept on, his golden hair tousled beyond help of any mere combing. She left him and went into the bathroom to shower. It was only when she came out again, bundled in his robe, that he stirred awake and gazed at her with amusement.
“Good morning,” he murmured. “Are you an early riser or am I just lazy?”
She smiled. “Since it’s already eight thirty, I guess that makes you lazy.”
“Come here.” He patted the bed. “Sit down with me.”
Reluctantly she complied and was reminded yet again of how susceptible she was to his attractions. Already, those hormones were doing their work; she could feel them flooding her face with heat.
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