by Lisa Jackson
Between bites of tuna, pickle, and rye bread, she channel-surfed but found nothing on the woman who’d leaped from the nineteenth story of the Montmort Tower.
Yesterday’s news.
She tried her iPad, as she had earlier this morning, but again discovered no more information than she’d had before leaving the house. After she washed the dishes, she put on her pajamas and spent another hour doing a little digging on the computer to see if she could uncover any information on the people Didi had listed in her little notebook, but she came up dry.
Muttering to herself, she watched Romeo curl into a ball at the end of the couch. She stretched. It was too early for bed, and she wasn’t interested in television. Maybe she’d pick up that book she’d started three or four times, a mystery that couldn’t quite grab her attention.
Getting to her feet, she glanced out the window. Her heart nosedived. Parked in the very spot as the night before was the dark SUV.
He was back?
The guy who she was certain had been following her?
She snapped off the light so she wasn’t visible, then squinted through the glass. Was there someone in the driver’s seat?
Maybe. But she couldn’t see. Heart in her throat, she decided she had to find out who owned the car and why it had suddenly taken a spot right in front of the house. She’d just go down and take a picture of the vehicle and license plate, that was all. If the vehicle belonged to anyone nearby, or a guest, no big deal. But at least her curiosity would be satisfied.
She threw on her clothes again, found her purse in the kitchen, grabbed the tactical flashlight she always carried, her phone, and her remote Subaru key, then grabbed her short jacket from the bedroom closet. Stuffing everything into the pockets, she started for the exterior staircase, steps that had been converted from the original ladder-type fire escape. The key could be used to hit a panic button on the car and cause the horn to blare and the lights to strobe to scare anyone intent on harming her or to alert the neighbors that she was in danger. The flashlight was powerful enough to temporarily blind an attacker if she pushed the right button as she shined the beam into his face, and the jagged, metal edges around the flashlight’s lens could cut deep and wound an attacker should she unexpectedly end up in close proximity to him.
She certainly hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She told herself again that she was overreacting, that, as Greta had suggested, a neighbor just had a different vehicle or rental car or guests or something. Kids home from college.
Fair enough, she thought, her pulse skyrocketing.
She’d take a picture of the SUV and license plate and find out who it belonged to.
And hopefully she could do it on the sly. There would be no confrontation.
As she headed through her small kitchen, she said a quick prayer under her breath.
* * *
The killer set up.
The rifle would do. He stroked the barrel with a caress, then eased along the path, careful not to make a sound. Lights were burning in the house, but he checked the road.
Quiet.
No traffic right now.
Good.
All he had to do was wait for the exact moment.
A dog was barking closer than he liked, but he forced himself not to react. He took a calming breath of the cool night air to center himself. He closed his eyes for the briefest of seconds.
Then he was ready, every muscle tense.
Go time.
He slipped his night-vision goggles from the top of his head to the bridge of his nose and voila . . . dark night became a colorless day.
Perfect.
And the familiar song from his youth rolled on through his brain.
* * *
Flipping her hood over her head, Remmi peered through the window cut into the back door that opened off her small kitchen. Nothing. No boogeyman lurking on the top landing. No ghost of Didi lingering just outside the door near the vine-covered wall. Just darkness on this side of the house. Gripping the flashlight, she headed outside and started down the steps.
Rain was beating steadily, the November air heavy and cold, the streetlights dimmed by low-hanging clouds. So far so good. No . . . wait.
She’d just stepped onto the second-floor landing when she felt a vibration. She froze, straining to see through the rain, trying to hear over the continual plop of drops and gurgle of water in the downspouts.
A noise.
A footfall?
Her throat constricted.
One soft thud, then another. More vibrations. In rapid succession.
No doubt about it now. Someone was climbing steadily upward.
Every muscle in her body tensed as she peered through the open stairs to the level below, where a dark figure of a man was ascending from the first-floor landing.
For a second, she panicked, thought of fleeing upstairs, back through the door of her apartment to safety. She could throw the dead bolt and, if he kept coming, dial 9-1-1 and alert Jade and Greta. That would be the sane move. But then she’d never know. Damn. She clicked on the flashlight. The harsh beam illuminated the staircase. She rained that sharp light straight down on the man’s upturned face. “Jesus!” he exclaimed, throwing an arm over his forehead to shade his eyes.
“Who are you?” she demanded shrilly, heart stampeding. He’d stopped dead in his tracks. “What’re you doing here?”
“What the hell is that? Turn it off!”
In that second, she recognized him.
The breath died in her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Shocked, her heart pounding frantically, she found herself staring into the chiseled features of Noah Scott.
The boy from Las Vegas who had stood her up, then nearly died in the desert.
The boy who had haunted her dreams for two damned decades.
For a second, time seemed to stand completely still. Her throat turned to dust. Unexplained tears suddenly burned the back of her eyes. No words came, though a thousand questions spun through her mind. Somewhere, not far away, an engine started.
“For the love of God, Remmi, are you trying to burn out my retinas? Turn that damned thing off!”
“Noah?” she whispered, still disbelieving, raindrops splattering around her.
“Yeah, Remmi. It’s me,” he said, his voice deeper than she remembered. “Do you mind? You’re gonna blind me.”
“But why?” she asked in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”
His head had turned to the side to avoid the glare, and she saw it then, the scar at the base of his throat, evidence of the bullet that had nearly taken his life. Letting out a breath, he squinted upward again. “I came here looking for you.”
CHAPTER 22
Noah winced. Damn, that light was harsh.
“Looking for me?” Remmi repeated in a voice that brought back memories of hot summer nights two decades earlier. For a second, she seemed stunned. He wasn’t sure she believed him. “Looking for me? Are you kidding me? After all this time?”
“Yes. Now, can we get out of the rain? And turn off that damned light.”
“Go inside? Are you crazy? I don’t even know you anymore!”
“Sure you do—” Rain was seeping under his collar, and still she kept that garish, painful flashlight trained on him. He closed his eyes for some relief and was vaguely aware of the start of an engine, a car driving off.
“It’s been twenty years, Noah!” Her voice was tight. “No, we’re not getting out of the rain. What the hell are you doing here?”
She certainly was the girl he remembered, full of piss and vinegar, a smart, pretty girl who’d been sassy and intellectual and ready to take a dare at a moment’s notice. He surmised she hadn’t changed all that much.
“I saw you on TV,” he explained. He could rush her, of course—the illumination wasn’t completely crippling—but he didn’t want to scare her any more than he already had. “You were in the crowd at the Montmort when the woman jumped.”
“So?”
> “I was looking for you anyway. I’d just found out you were in San Francisco. Then there you were, on TV.”
“You expect me to believe that?” she scoffed.
“It’s the truth, for God’s sake. Now, can you switch that thing off!”
She hesitated, said something unintelligible under her breath, but snapped off the flashlight, the staircase becoming immediately pitch dark, no image visible for a few seconds as his eyes adjusted.
“I don’t appreciate being stalked,” she said.
“What? Stalked? I’m not—”
“You could have rung the bell downstairs,” she argued, cutting him off. “You know, like a normal person? I mean, how did you even know I was up here? On the third floor?”
“I saw the lights go on.”
“There it is!” she said. “What I said: stalker.”
He held up a hand as his vision returned and he saw how angry and scared she was. He hadn’t meant to frighten her. “Look, I know other people live in the house.” She started to argue again, accuse him, but he broke in, “Yes, I did check that out.”
Her scowl deepened, and she still held the flashlight as if it were a weapon, clutching it tightly in one fist as if ready to strike.
“I didn’t want to bother them.”
“Even though it’s not that late, other lights are on, and again, it’s the normal thing to do.”
“Okay, next time I’ll do it the normal way. Even though there’s not much normal about us,” he said dryly, looking up at her, icy drops of rain running down his face.
“Us,” she repeated. From the higher landing, he could see her glare down at him. “You show up here, out of the blue, after seeing me on TV . . . after twenty years.”
Noah’s pupils returned to normal, and the lights of the city, low and muted by the rain, came into his vision again. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Then use the front door.”
“Okay. Okay. Should I go down there now and ring the doorbell?”
She didn’t appreciate his sardonic tone. “Maybe.”
“Meanwhile, we’re getting wet out here,” he pointed out.
“Oh, hell.” She let out a long puff of air and started back up the stairs. “Fine. I guess. Come on in.” At the top landing, she threw open the door and stormed inside, with Noah a few steps behind.
“Lock it,” she ordered. “There are all kind of crazies out tonight.”
“Like me?” he asked.
“Very possibly.”
Her running shoes leaving a trail on the kitchen floor, she led him to a small living area with a broad bank of windows offering a panoramic view of the bay. The room was cozy and lived-in, an architectural throwback to a previous century, filled with furniture that had seen better days and a patterned carpet covering part of the battered hardwood floor. On one wall, a bookcase was crammed with paperbacks, hardbound books, a few knickknacks, and a stack of magazines. An iPad had been left glowing on the couch. He could see the remains of a sandwich on the table. “Maybe you should start over,” she suggested, and he noted she hadn’t put down the flashlight with its sharp-toothed bezel surrounding its lens.
“You’ve been following me for days, nearly giving me heart attacks,” she charged, her lips compressed into a thin, angry line, her eyes, as green as he remembered, narrowed as she glared at him. She was peeling off her jacket, water dripping on the rug. She scarcely noticed as she struggled with one sleeve because of the weapon she still held.
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw you.”
“Following you?”
“Yes! Your SUV!” Finally extricating herself, she tossed her jacket over the back of a worn chair as he unzipped his. “Yesterday. Last night . . . you parked out front and . . .” Her voice fell away as she read his expression. “Right?” she asked, some of her anger dissipating. “In the dark Explorer or Pathfinder or Tahoe or whatever? You were following me earlier today, while I was—”
“Not me. I drive a pickup. Silver.”
“But . . .” Brow furrowed, she walked to a window and looked outside, then let out a harsh breath. “But it was right there.” After one more glance at the street in front of the house, she shot out of the room and down a short hallway.
He hurried to follow.
She was standing at her bedroom window, staring into the night. The room was small, dominated by a twin bed and a battle-scarred dresser: the pictures on the wall were black-and-white cityscapes, nothing personal. “It was just there,” she said from the far side of the bed. “Right there.” She pointed a stiff finger and tapped the glass. “It’s gone. But I saw it. Not ten minutes ago.”
He stood behind her, looking over her shoulder at an empty space near the darkened curb.
“You’re talking about the SUV.”
“Yes! The one that’s been following me! You’re saying it’s not yours?”
“It’s not mine.” From behind her, he dropped his hands on her shoulders. He felt her flinch as he rotated her body slightly to an angle where she was looking farther down the hill to the final ess curve. “That’s mine down there.” He pointed over her shoulder, his right arm nearly brushing her ear. “The pickup. Chevy Silverado 4x4.” The grill and windshield of the vehicle caught in the vapor glow of the streetlight.
“That’s yours?”
“Yes.”
Twisting her neck, she looked directly in front of the house again. “It was there,” she repeated, staring at the empty space. “Last night and, again, just a few minutes ago. That’s why I was coming out of the apartment.”
“To confront the guy? Blind him?”
“Whatever.” She didn’t find his joke the least bit funny. “This”—she held up the flashlight—“can also be used as a club or attack weapon.”
“I’m aware. But again, whatever vehicle you saw wasn’t mine.”
“Then whose?”
He still had one hand on her shoulder, noticed the warmth of her body beneath her sweater. Then, as if she realized he was still touching her, she tensed and slid away from him. “I don’t know. Maybe it belongs to . . .”
“The neighbors? Some friend dropping in on someone who lives nearby? I’ve heard the theories. And I don’t have any idea if they hold water. But even so, even if the SUV’s legit and belongs to someone or their friend, why was it, or one like it, following me?” She turned and faced him, her face only inches from his, the warmth of her body radiating from her.
“You’re certain it was—”
“Yes!
“I don’t know, Remmi,” he said honestly.
She regarded him belligerently for a moment, then sighed heavily. “Oh, hell. Am I going crazy? Imagining all this? Because of what happened? Because of the woman who looked like Didi and jumped.”
“I don’t think you’re certifiable yet.”
“Come on,” she muttered, walking into the living area again. Dropping into a corner of the worn couch, she pointed to a faded chair and said, “Why don’t you sit down and take the time to tell me why you’re here. Everything. Why now?”
“Because,” he said, “I have a feeling it’s all starting again.”
“What?”
“Whatever we were caught up in that night in the desert.”
From her expression, he guessed she felt the same. “Because of all of this sudden interest in Didi Storm again?”
“That could be a part of it,” he allowed as a huge furry cat appeared from behind the couch. Without any effort, the cat hopped onto the cushions, then the back of the couch. Once perched, he focused gold, unblinking eyes on Noah.
“This is Romeo,” she said as he finished taking off his jacket, laying it next to hers on the back of the chair. Leaning forward, she took their coats and, in a swift motion, tossed both onto a parson’s bench near the bookcase. “Sorry, cat hair,” she explained. “This guy here is one of my landlady’s pets. She has three cats, and they’re allowed to wander throughout the house
. Romeo likes to hang out up here when I’m home.” Absently, she stroked Romeo’s wide head as Noah dropped into an oversize club chair. Leather, no fur visible.
“So he’s a guard cat?”
The corner of her mouth lifted in a way he found as intriguing and sexy as he once had. He hadn’t expected that.
“This guy?” She gave the cat another pet. “Uh, not so much.” She got the conversation back on track. “You were telling me why you happened to show up tonight. If only part of it is about Didi, what’s the rest?”
“I wanted to see you again.”
She laughed. “Okay, sure.”
“No, really. I saw footage of the crowd surrounding the building, and I was pretty sure I caught a glimpse of you. I couldn’t believe it, and I wanted to reconnect.”
“Again—why wait so long?”
“Because I’ve been on the run. At least in the beginning. I was a scared kid. Someone tried to kill me that night in the desert, and I don’t know who. I remember him approaching, with the rifle, backlit by the fire, and I have the sensation that I might have known him, but then everything went blank until I woke up in the hospital, where I overheard nurses saying that someone came to visit me, a guy without ID. And the police wanted to question me, too. It all sounded like trouble, so I ran, as fast and as far as I could. Stole some money from my old man and hitchhiked to L.A.” He stopped then, and she just stared at him.
She slowly shook her head. “Fast-forward and you’re here? In my living room? What the hell happened during all those years in between?”
“A lot. I joined up. Army. Believe it or not, I became an MP.” He caught the surprise in her eyes. “Yeah, I know. The kid who always bucked authority.”
Again, her lips twitched in a hint of a smile, probably remembering his run-ins with the law back in the day.
“Anyway, I got out two years ago. Didn’t last the full twenty for a nice pension, but I was done with it. And finished looking over my shoulder. Always thinking that someone—I didn’t know who—could be that bastard who blew up the car and shot me point-blank. He left me for dead, then tried to finish the job, I’m sure of it, when I was in the hospital. So I ran. For a long time. But I was sick of it.”