by Linda Turner
Lost in her thoughts and wishing she could have put this off until later, she was checking to see how much sugar she had when she heard a noise behind her. Startled, she whirled and nearly dropped the sugar canister when she spotted Louis standing in the kitchen doorway. “Oh!” she laughed shakily, her heart hammering against her ribs. “You scared me.”
Contrite, he immediately apologized. “I should have said something, but I thought you heard me come in. Are you all right?”
“I guess I’m still a little jumpy.” Replacing the sugar canister on the counter, she decided to brew tea and moved to the sink to fill the teakettle with water. “The last week has been pretty hairy,” she admitted as she crossed to the stove. “Not knowing who was threatening me was the worst. I was constantly looking over my shoulder. Then to find out it was Jeff…” She shuddered. “I still can’t believe it.”
His expression suddenly hard and cold, Louis nodded. “I know. I’m sure he fooled a lot of people, but there’s no question that the man is a first-class bastard, dear. I hope he gets the book thrown at him. It’s no more than he deserves for hurting you.”
His vehemence surprised her. She knew Louis was as protective of her as an older uncle, but he’d always seemed to like Jeff, even after she divorced him. In fact, she’d never heard him say a harsh word against him. “I really think he has to be sick, Louis. Or he’s on drugs or something. It’s the only explanation. Four women are dead. The Jeff I was married to would have to be out of his mind to do something like that.”
“I don’t care if he’s crazy as a loon. He hurt you, and he’s going to pay for that.”
Confused, she frowned. “He scared me, but he never touched me physically. It’s those poor women who are the real victims—”
“They didn’t suffer like you did,” he said flatly, dismissing their deaths with a careless wave of his hand. “You were the one who constantly tried to please a man who couldn’t be pleased. I stood by and watched you try to make that son of a bitch happy, and it made me sick to my stomach. He didn’t deserve you.”
Stunned, Sabrina could only stare at him. She’d never heard Louis talk like this, hadn’t a clue, in fact, that he’d ever felt that way about Jeff. And how could he dismiss the death of those four women so easily, without an ounce of compassion? She’d always thought he was such a kind and gentle man, but there was a barely controlled rage in his eyes now that was more than a little scary.
Suddenly aware of the way he stood in the doorway, blocking it, she told herself to remain calm. There was no reason to get all paranoid. Obviously, something was going on here that she didn’t understand. She would get him outside and they would talk about it.
The teakettle whistled then, and relief almost weakened her knees. “The tea will be ready in just a second,” she said brightly. Her smile felt like it would crack her face, but it was the best she could manage under the circumstances. “Why don’t you go on out to the front porch and I’ll be right there?” she suggested. “I think I’ve got some cookies around here somewhere—”
“No.”
She jumped at his sharp response, her smile slipping. “Okay, fine,” she said carefully, watching him warily. “Then we’ll just have the tea.”
Never budging from the doorway, he only looked at her, his pale eyes suddenly coolly amused behind the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses. “You just don’t get it, do you, Sabrina? You’re not going anywhere.”
Her heart jumped into her throat, but she only laughed shakily. “Of course I am. I told you, I have to get back to work—”
“I’ve been watching you for a long time, you know. Years, in fact,” he said casually, not even hearing her as he leaned against the doorjamb. “The first day the two of you moved in here, I knew Jeff was all wrong for you. Anybody with eyes could see that he was a selfish bastard who didn’t deserve you, but you tried your damndest to make it work. Do you know how hard it was for me to stand back and watch you do that?”
Transfixed, she could do nothing but mutely shake her head.
“No, of course you didn’t,” he said bitterly. “You never even knew I was alive. And I couldn’t blame you. You were married and you should have had eyes for no one but your husband, even if he didn’t deserve you. But then you divorced him, and I thought I might finally have a chance. Surely you would see then how much I loved you. But you never looked twice at me.”
Shocked, Sabrina couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He loved her? As a man loves a woman? Surely she must have misunderstood. But even as she tried to convince herself otherwise, she looked into his eyes and knew she hadn’t made a mistake. He made no attempt to hide his pain—or resentment. Remorse stabbing her in the heart, Sabrina wanted to defend herself, but there was nothing she could say that wouldn’t make him feel worse. He was right—she hadn’t noticed, but he was over thirty years older than she was. He’d always been friendly when they spotted each other in the yard, but she’d never dreamed that he was romantically interested in her. Why would she? He was old enough to be her father!
“Louis, I’m sorry. I never realized.”
“No, you didn’t,” he retorted, not making things easy for her. “You were young and pretty and you didn’t have time for an old man. So I looked around and found myself someone else. She was a lot like you, a professional woman who knew what she wanted out of life. Unfortunately, she wasn’t you.”
Becoming more uncomfortable by the moment, Sabrina really didn’t want to hear about his love life, but he hadn’t budged from the doorway, and she knew he wasn’t letting her out of there until he’d said everything he had to say. “That doesn’t mean she wasn’t right for you,” she said earnestly, trying to reassure him. “Maybe you need to give her another chance.”
“I can’t. She’s dead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!”
“I killed her.”
He said it so easily, in the same casual tone he might use to mention that he’d mowed the grass, that, at first, the confession didn’t register. Then her startled eyes met his and there was no question that he’d said exactly what she thought he’d said. Her heart starting to slam in her chest, she paled. “If this is some kind of a joke, I don’t think it’s very funny.”
“Oh, it’s no joke,” he assured her seriously. “I tried to make her into you—the same perfume and hairstyle, but she kept fighting me. She said I was old-fashioned and domineering and no man was going to dictate to her what she could and couldn’t wear. She didn’t know her place, so I shot her.”
Horrified, Sabrina realized she must have made a strangled sound of protest because he pushed away from the doorjamb, the smile that played about his mouth rueful and twisted and deranged. “Don’t worry, she didn’t suffer. None of them did.”
A restless hand flew to Sabrina’s suddenly tight throat. “None of them?”
“There were others,” he said simply. “But they didn’t work out, either.”
“How many others?”
“Three more. I knew you would put two and two together, after the first two, and you did. Finally, you noticed me!” A pleased smile bloomed across his face. “It was wonderful. So I killed again. Then once more because I couldn’t help myself. You made me mad.” Suddenly noticing her ashen complexion, he frowned. “You should sit down. You’re awfully pale all of a sudden.”
Her blood roaring in her ears, Sabrina almost choked on a hysterical laugh. He’d just admitted to killing four women and he was concerned that she was a little pale?
It hit her then—four women. He’d claimed he’d killed four women, and the only murders she’d written about recently were those committed by the serial killer.
The logical part of her mind immediately rejected the idea. The police had arrested Jeff; they were sure they had the right man. He had motive and opportunity, not to mention a garage full of incriminating evidence and no alibi. They couldn’t have made a mistake. Could they?
Dread clutching her heart, she stepped aro
und the table before he could help her into a chair. “I don’t need to sit down, but I would like to hear more about these murders,” she said quickly. “When did all of this happen? And who were these women? Did you know them personally or just pick them by chance?”
Amused that she even had to ask, he chided softly, “Surely you’ve guessed by now, Sabrina. I can’t think of anyone in San Antonio who wouldn’t know their names. Charlene McClintock, Tanya Bishop—”
“But Jeff was arrested for those murders. The police found evidence—”
“That I planted,” he said quite proudly. “How do you think they even knew to look for it, dear? I called in the tip.”
He was serious. Even though a smile still clung to his thin lips and he spoke in a tone that was warm with affection, there was a feral gleam in his eye that a blind woman couldn’t have missed. “Why?” she choked out hoarsely. “Why are you telling me this?”
In the blink of an eye, his smile vanished. “Because I love you!” he raged. “I’ve loved you forever, but you couldn’t see it. You couldn’t see me!” he snarled, hitting himself hard in the chest with a clenched fist. “It was your work, always your work that got in my way. Then when I finally figured out a way to get your attention there, you couldn’t see anybody but him!”
Agitated, his mouth twisting with contempt, he turned suddenly and swept all the canisters from the counter. “Damn you, you’re in love with Blake Nickels, aren’t you? Don’t try to deny it. Don’t you dare! Do you think just because I’m an old man I can’t see what’s right in front of my eyes? I saw you!”
Startled, more frightened than she’d ever been in her life, Sabrina took a step back. “When? What are you talking about?”
“At that damn newspaper party when you couldn’t keep your hands off each other. And then later on the porch when you kissed him like a slut. You left with him that night, after you found my note on the table. You left and went to his apartment, didn’t you? You made love with him.”
“No. Not then—”
“Don’t lie to me!” he roared, jerking a very small, very ugly little revolver out of his pocket. “I won’t stand for it. Do you hear me? I’ve killed for you, and by God, you’ll love me or you’ll love no one.”
Trapped, caught between the locked back door and where he stood blocking the doorway to the rest of the house, Sabrina knew real fear for the first time in her life. He was going to kill her—there wasn’t a doubt in her mind. If she didn’t find a way to reason with him, he’d snuff her out as easily as he had Tanya Bishop and all the others. The police would know then that Jeff was innocent, but they wouldn’t suspect Louis in a million years. They would look for someone with an obvious grudge, not an elderly neighbor who had never had a cross word with her.
Never taking her eyes from the gun, she slowly pulled out a chair at the table and sank down into it. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to run, but that was probably what he was hoping for, so he would have the pleasure of gunning her down. “Please,” she pleaded shakily, “put the gun down and let’s talk. Surely there’s some way we can work this out….”
Staring at his computer screen, Blake quickly read over his story about Jeff Harper’s arrest. It was good, he silently acknowledged. Damn good. The kind of thing that just might win him another award. And he didn’t like it at all.
Scowling, ignoring the commotion of the Times’ city room, he dropped his hands from the keyboard and sat back, wondering what the devil was wrong. He’d checked all his facts twice, arranged and rearranged them, and started over more times than he had on any other story in the last six months. And he still couldn’t shake the niggling feeling that something wasn’t quite right.
The facts just didn’t add up, dammit!
Tapping a pencil against the edge of his desk, he told himself he was getting as bad as Sabrina. She’d tried every way she could to find an excuse for the incriminating evidence found in her ex’s garage, and now he found himself doing the same thing. And not because he cared two cents about Jeff Harper. He didn’t like the man. But if he was a serial killer, then Blake was Al Capone.
Oh, all the facts pointed to Harper’s guilt; there was no doubt about that. If you just took them collectively and didn’t ask any questions. Like who called in the anonymous tip. How had the caller known there was enough evidence in Harper’s garage to choke a horse? And why would a man of Harper’s obvious intelligence keep damning evidence on his property just days after he’d been questioned about the murders by the police? He had to know he was a suspect and the police could return at any time. And then there was the car. If Harper really was the killer and the same man who had left those notes for Sabrina, why would he use his own car in a neighborhood where it was known and he was sure to be recognized? Only an idiot would do that.
Or someone who was trying to frame Harper.
Instinctively, he tried to dismiss the idea. Kelly was an experienced detective—he would have smelled a setup like that in a heartbeat.
But he’d also been under a lot of pressure to make an arrest in the case, a voice in his head pointed out. Harper made it easy for him by publicly confronting Sabrina and acting like an ass. With the evidence that was found in that damn garage, what else could Kelly do but arrest him? That doesn’t necessarily mean Harper actually killed anyone.
And if he didn’t, then the real killer was still out there, still after Sabrina.
His blood running cold at the thought, Blake snatched up his phone and punched out the number for the Daily Record. “Let me speak to Sabrina Jones,” he snapped the minute someone answered in the other paper’s city room.
“Hold on a minute,” a disembodied, bored feminine voice said. “I think she just stepped out for a second. Let me see if I can find her.”
Blake winced as the receiver was thrown down on a desk, every instinct he possessed urging him to hurry. Too late, he realized he should have told the woman that it was an emergency, but he’d expected Sabrina to be right there. Dammit, where the hell was she?
Twenty seconds ticked by on the clock on the wall at the far end of the city room, then another thirty, before the phone was picked up again and the same feminine voice said, “Sorry, she’s not here. She left about twenty minutes ago to go home and pick up her car. You want to leave a message?”
Blake felt his heart stop in his chest. Home? She’d gone home? Swearing, he growled, “Yeah. This is Blake Nickels. If she shows up there, tell her not to leave again without talking to me first. You got that? Don’t let her leave!”
Slamming the phone down, he jerked it up immediately and called Sabrina’s home number. But if she was there, she didn’t answer, and with every ring, the muscles in his gut tightened. “Dammit!”
She hadn’t gotten there yet, he told himself, and prayed it was true. If somebody at the Record gave her a ride, they could have had some errands to run before they could drop her off. If he hurried, he could beat her there. Hanging up, he ran for the door.
Her eyes locked in fascinated horror on the gun that Louis held on her with icy determination, Sabrina jumped when there was a sudden pounding on her front door. Before she could even think about screaming for help, Louis was around the table and pressing the revolver to her temple.
“One word,” he snarled in a low voice, “and it’ll be your last.”
Her gasp quickly stifled, she nodded and felt the cold steel of the gun’s barrel slide against her skin. Nausea churned in her stomach, backing up into her throat.
“Sabrina? Are you in there?”
At the first sound of Blake’s voice, she bit her lip to keep from crying out, the need to call out to him almost more than she could bear. He’d come for her. Somehow she’d known deep inside that he would, even though he couldn’t possibly have known that she was in trouble. He would take care of Louis. All she had to do was scream—
“I’ll kill him,” Louis grated, reading her mind. “I swear to God I’ll kill him if he doesn’t get aw
ay from that door.”
“No!” Horror choking her, she ignored the revolver at her temple and turned to him with pleading eyes. “He must have called the Record and found out I got a ride home. Let me talk to him. I can convince him to leave.”
“Yeah, right,” he drawled sarcastically. “Before or after you tell him to call the police?”
“I won’t. I swear!” she promised. “You can stand right there behind the door and listen the whole time. We had a fight yesterday,” she lied in growing desperation. “I’ll tell him I’m still mad at him and make him leave. Please. If you shoot him, the neighbors will hear and then what will you do?”
He hesitated, clearly not trusting her, the look in his eyes wild and panicky. Whatever was going on in that twisted head of his, he obviously hadn’t anticipated this kind of kink in his plans. “All right,” he muttered. “But you say one wrong word, you even look at him funny, and I’ll shoot you both. Get up.”
Jerking her to her feet, he jammed the gun in her back and pushed her through the kitchen door into the central hall that ran all the way to the front of the house. His breath hot against the back of her neck, he stopped her three feet from the front door simply by curling his fingers into her arm until she winced. “Remember what I said. One wrong move and you won’t have time to regret it. I’ll make sure of it.”
Her knees quaking, her heart pounding so hard she could hardly catch her breath, she nodded stiffly and took two shaky steps toward the door just as Blake knocked again. Out of sight behind the door itself, Louis thrust the revolver into her ribs. “Put the chain on and keep it on,” he said between his teeth in a nearly soundless whisper.
Her fingers far from steady, Sabrina did as ordered, then waited for his nod for her to open the door. When he grudgingly gave it, she braced herself. Her heart in her throat, the cold, hard barrel of the revolver pressing threateningly into her ribs, she opened the door as far as the chain would allow, all of four inches.