Anne Stuart's Out-of-Print Gems

by Anne Stuart

  She looked past him. Snow was coming down heavily, layering his thinning black hair, coating his leather jacket. Ricky Drago was no formal throwback to the twenties, Chicago style. He was every inch a modern hood, with murder on his mind. Rafferty’s murder, already accomplished. And hers.

  “What’s keeping you then?” she demanded, no longer caring. It had to be well below freezing, and with the windchill factor she’d probably freeze to death before long. Not that such an end might not be preferable, but she was getting heartily sick of Drago. “You’ve killed Rafferty, why don’t you finish me off?”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? But I’ve bungled the job three times already. I’m not about to make another mistake. I’m going to savor the moment, do it right. And I want to give him enough time to get here if he’s smart enough to figure it out.”

  “Who?” she asked numbly.

  “Rafferty.”

  “He’s dead,” she said, fighting against the sudden surge of hope. “I saw you shoot him in the face. No one could survive…”

  “Probably not,” he agreed. “But Rafferty is full of surprises. I think we’ll give him a little time. See if he still has the ability to rise from the dead.” And he laughed, a high-pitched, eerie giggle that made Helen’s skin crawl.

  He’d warned her about regret, about sadistic pain. He’d just delivered her the cruelest blow imaginable—impossible hope. “Where are we?” she demanded, staring around her. Even coated in icy white, the bleak landscape looked familiar. A snow-capped desert, with strange shapes looming beyond them, she’d been there before, in another time, another place. Just like Rafferty.

  “Don’t you recognize it?” Drago said, sitting back on his heels in the gathering snow. “It’s your rooftop, Ms. Emerson. You used to come out here in the summer and lie on a towel and unfasten the top of your bathing suit. I watched you. I was waiting, waiting for the right time. Did you know I was watching you? Waiting for you to sit up and show me your breasts? Did you show Rafferty your breasts, Ms. Emerson?”

  Helen fought down the sudden panicked nausea at the thought of him, watching. “Why didn’t you kill me then?”

  Drago shrugged. “Like I said, the time wasn’t right. I was planning on waiting for Valentine’s Day. For old time’s sake. I haven’t whacked anyone since I came back, and I thought you’d be the perfect one to start with.”

  “But you started with Rafferty.”

  Drago’s face darkened. “Yeah,” he said. “I didn’t want to do that. I mean, things were working out pretty good. I never thought that dope Billy would really get you two together, but he did. He never knew that’s what I had in mind in the first place. I really wanted to do you both at the same time. But then, life is full of little disappointments. I may still get the chance.”

  “Why did you want to kill Rafferty? What did he ever do to you…?”

  Drago’s smile was very sweet. “It’s like what they say about climbing Mount Everest. You do it because it’s there. Rafferty was always a boil on my butt. All he ever had to do was look at someone and he’d scare the hell out of them. I had to use force.”

  “Didn’t you want to?”

  “Yeah,” he said, after he thought about it. “Good point. But then, nobody ever said you were stupid, Ms. Emerson.”

  She didn’t know how much longer this could go on, carrying on a crazy conversation with a madman. Where was the drifting, cloudlike comfort of freezing to death? She was so cold she ached, a hard, solid pain that wouldn’t stop, that matched the throbbing in her head, the stinging in her cheek, the icy numbness in her hands and feet, the devastating hole in her heart. She wanted it over, she wanted safety and comfort and Rafferty’s arms around her. If death was the only way she could have it, then death it was.

  “Are you sure you want to wait, Ricky?” she asked in a taunting voice. “What if Rafferty does manage to survive? What if he shows up here, maybe with Billy? Do you want to take that chance? It must be strange to fail, after being such an expert in your field. Don’t you want to prove to yourself you can still do it?”

  Drago was looking at her with astonishment wiping out some of his eerie glee. “What did you call me?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Ricky. Ricky Drago’s your real name, isn’t it? Not Willie Morris.”

  He suddenly looked very pale. “How did you know that? It’s not in my police records. It’s not anywhere.” He grabbed her shoulders, squeezing hard, and shook her. “How the hell did you know my real name?” he shouted in her face.

  “Rafferty told me.”

  He flung her back against the brick wall. “He couldn’t have. That’s not the way it’s supposed to work.”

  “You want to keep it a secret, Drago? Then you should have done something about the newspapers. There’s a couple of pictures of you in today’s Chronicle—Billy showed them to me. One of you from 1928, all spiffy and elegant. And another one a year later, lying dead on a garage floor.”

  “Bitch,” Drago said viciously.

  “Why do you waste your time with me, Ricky? Why do you waste your time with someone like Rafferty? Wouldn’t you be better off tracking down the men who shot you sixty some years ago?”

  “You stupid fool. They’re all dead. They’ve been dead almost as long as we have, and they haven’t come back. Don’t ask me why. I hunted for them, every year, even caught up with a couple of them, and it was no good. I couldn’t kill them. Just as I know Rafferty can’t kill me. He may want to stop me, but there’s not a damned thing he can do. All he can do is watch as I kill you.”

  “But he’s already dead.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m keeping an open mind. We’ll wait.”

  “I’m cold,” she said, her voice trembling with shivers.

  “Too bad you don’t have Crystal’s old coat. Maybe I should consider going downstairs and getting it. There’d be a certain justice in that. Crystal was always sweet to me. Treated me real nice. Except that she treated Rafferty even nicer.”

  “Is that why you want to kill him?”

  “Hell, no,” Drago said, some of his former good cheer returning. “It just seems like the thing to do. Then maybe when I finish with the two of you I’ll go after Moretti. Can’t trust the little snitch.”

  “He didn’t tell me about you,” Helen said, as panic whipped through her. “He refused to cooperate when he was arrested this last time.”

  “Then why did you let him walk?”

  “Rafferty…”

  “It doesn’t matter. I think I’m developing a taste for this. I didn’t get to enjoy doing Rafferty, but I’m going to enjoy you. And then…”

  “Get away from her.” It wasn’t Rafferty’s voice in the snow-whipped stillness. It was Billy’s, sounding hoarse, determined, and deadly. Helen squinted into the darkness, but she couldn’t see a thing.

  Drago didn’t turn around. He stayed where he was, squatting on his haunches in front of her, and the muzzle of the gun was pressed underneath her chin. “You can’t stop me, Billy,” he scoffed. “I remember the time you puked, when we had that shoot-out over on Sycamore. You’re not the killing type, and you know it as well as I do. Maybe to save your wife and child, but what the hell do you care about a state’s attorney? She tried to keep you away from Mary. If she lives, she’s your natural enemy.”

  “Get away from her, Ricky.” Helen’s weary eyes followed the sound of Billy’s voice. He was off to the right, silhouetted against the blue-black sky, the snow swirling around him.

  Drago knew where he was as well. “Make me, Billy,” he said, turning his head in Billy’s direction.

  And then Helen saw him. Coming up on the other side, silent, as still as always, stalking his enemy, and she couldn’t control her little start of joy and disbelief.

  It was enough to alert Drago. He yanked the gun from underneath her chin, fired it at Billy, then whirled around to face the approaching figure, the burning metal against Helen’s temple, scorching her. “I’m going t
o kill her, Rafferty,” he wheezed. “You’ve made my dreams come true. You can’t stop me, and even if I can’t kill you, in another few hours you’ll be gone. But don’t worry about it. I’ll be waiting for you next Valentine’s Day. I’ll have something really festive planned.”

  Rafferty stepped into the light, and Helen sucked in her breath as she saw his face. There was no mark on it from the gun that had been fired point-blank at him. No mark, but a deadly purpose.

  “You want to die, Drago?” he asked, his voice soft and menacing. “Stupid question—of course you want to die. You want to be with Lizzie again. Let Helen go. There are police crawling all over this building. Didn’t you know Ms. Emerson comes from a family of cops? All it took was one phone call and half the force is on its way.”

  “Do you think I care? Cops couldn’t touch me back then—they won’t get me now.” He stroked the gun against Helen’s cheek, and it was all she could do not to scream.

  “You’re not invulnerable, Ricky. I’m one up on you that way. We’re a little more evenly matched this time. Stop hiding behind your hostage. Are you afraid of me? Afraid that this time I might be able to do it?”

  “You can’t take me,” Drago said in a high-pitched shriek, pushing Helen away and rising to his feet. “I’m not afraid of anything, and I’m not afraid of an East Coast jerk like you, with your fancy clothes and your fancy ways. You think you had Moran fooled, but he laughed at you behind your back. We all did. We knew you didn’t have the guts when things got rough. You didn’t refuse out of scruples, you refused to go along with the rough stuff because you were scared. You couldn’t shoot a living soul….”

  Rafferty raised the gun in his hand, pointing it at Drago. “But then, who knows if you qualify as a living soul, Ricky,” he said in a shivery, gentle tone of voice, aiming the gun. “Let’s see.” And the sound of the gun being cocked in the stillness was as audible as an actual firing.

  Drago’s face turned sickly white. “You can’t,” he gasped, taking a step backward, forgetting about Helen. “After all these years…”

  “After all these years,” Rafferty said, advancing on him, a slow, steady pace that drove all thought of his hostage out of Drago’s deranged mind, “I finally can.”

  And then Drago smiled, a ghastly travesty of humor. “No, you can’t,” he said. “Not if I’m not threatening your little lady friend. You can’t shoot me in cold blood, even if you know I deserve it.” He took another, deliberate step away from Helen, holding his arms up, the gun still in one hand. “Go ahead, Rafferty. Let’s see if you can play the cosmic avenger.”

  He couldn’t do it. Helen knew it, Drago knew it. Rafferty couldn’t shoot him down in cold blood, and that fact was his salvation. And their possible doom. The gun wavered in Rafferty’s strong hand, then lowered as he released the firing mechanism. “Get the hell out of here, Drago,” he said wearily.

  “No way.” He whirled around, the gun raised and aimed straight at Helen’s head, when a volley of shots filled the air. She knew that sound, the noise of a thousand drumbeats, the roar of thunder, as Drago’s body was riddled with bullets. And then all was an eerie silence.

  Helen reached Drago’s body at the same moment Rafferty did, and Rafferty took his hand, holding it hard. “Damn,” Drago wheezed. “Who would have thunk it? A copper finally got me in the end. See you, Raff…” His voice trailed off into silence. An eternal one. And Helen knew with absolute certainty that there would be no more valentines for Ricky Drago.

  There were police all around her, pulling her away from the body, pulling her away from Rafferty. She knew half of them, but at least none of her family was present.

  “I’m okay,” she said as someone tried to check her. “What about Billy?”

  “Just a flesh wound.” It was Rafferty’s voice behind her, a voice she never thought to hear again. “They’ll take him to the same hospital as Mary.”

  She turned to look at him across the crowded rooftop. Ignoring a dozen curious cops, she ran into his arms, holding tight, hiding her face against his chest.

  And somewhere in the wintry silence, a dog began to howl.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The apartment was still and silent when Rafferty finally shut the door behind them. He didn’t bother to switch on the light, and the darkness was a blessed relief to Helen’s ragged nerves. She slumped against him, exhausted, too weary even to cry, and his arms were tight, strong, comforting. The beat of his heart was slow and steady beneath her ear, the heat of him was palpable through his formal clothes. He was real, he was there. But for how long?

  She tried to remember Billy’s words to her as they’d bundled him onto a stretcher. He’d been pale, in shock, but he’d managed a weak smile. “Don’t think about it,” he whispered. “That’s what Mary wanted me to tell you. Just take each moment as it comes, and don’t think about the past. It’s too crazy. Take what you can and hold on to it.”

  Helen was trying to do just that. The last day and a half seemed nothing short of insane—a dreamlike excursion from reality that both exhausted and overwhelmed her. She never wanted it to end. And if she could believe Rafferty, it was about to end, all too soon.

  “Billy will be all right,” Rafferty murmured into her hair, his hands strong and comforting on her narrow back. She was huddled into his overcoat, and his own clothes were wet from melted snow. She sighed, pressing against him, wanting to absorb herself into his very bones.

  Rafferty’s powers never ceased to amaze Helen. His ability to return from the dead, to take a bullet in the face with no aftereffect were impressive enough. His ability to withstand the assembled, familial power of the Chicago police department was nothing short of miraculous.

  He might not have been quite so successful at expediting the removal of Drago’s body and sending the dozen police on their way with promises of full cooperation if members of her immediate family had been present. As it was, there were two honorary uncles, three ex-partners and a couple of patrolmen she’d worked with in the past, all with a personal interest in Helen’s well-being and an instinctive distrust for the still, silent stranger who was overruling them.

  Rafferty won. Once Billy was stabilized, his color pale but his pulse steady, once the initial questions were answered, Rafferty simply got rid of them. And no one, up to and including honorary uncle Tommy Lapatrie who’d bounced baby Helen on his knee after her christening could stand up to him.

  “I keep thinking about Drago,” she whispered in the darkness, pressing her face against his damp white shirt, his warm chest. “To see him cut down like that….” She shuddered, and Rafferty’s hold tightened. “Did they have to use machine guns?” she whispered.

  “They didn’t.”

  She raised her head, as a fresh chill ran through her body. “What do you mean? I heard them, I saw them…”

  “A police sharpshooter killed him. Three bullets, just to make certain.”

  “But I heard…And the dog…” she said.

  “Don’t think about it, Helen. It was another time, another place. Drago is where he belongs now, and if you ask me, he’s happy to be there. Losing his wife put him back over the edge. Now he can rest.”

  She looked up at him. “Is that supposed to be comforting?” she asked. “Is that what you’re expecting? A nice, eternal rest? If I can believe what you’ve been telling me…”

  “Don’t believe a word I’ve said.” He cupped her face with his strong hands, running his sensitive thumbs across her trembling mouth. “It’s all a pack of lies. Just believe in the moment. That’s all anyone ever has.”

  “That’s what Billy told me,” Helen whispered, looking into his bleak, sorrow-filled eyes.

  “Billy would know.”

  “I just have one question.”

  “Don’t ask it,” Rafferty said, his voice desperate. “It will only make things worse. Either I’ll lie to you, and you’ll hate me, or I’ll tell you the truth, and you’ll wind up hating me anyway.”

>   “I’m not going to ask if you love me, Jamey,” she managed a pragmatic tone of voice, and his mouth began to curve in a reluctant smile. “I know the answer, even if you don’t. I just want to know if you’d stay. If it were up to you.”

  “I don’t think I should answer that, either.”

  She reached up and took his face in her hands, his dear, lost face. “I’m not giving you a choice, mister,” she said firmly. “Would you stay?”

  For a moment he didn’t say a word. And then he closed his eyes, and she could see his soul flash across the dark planes of his face. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”

  From somewhere in the distance they could hear the sound of Crystal’s grandfather clock, beginning the slow, sad chime of midnight. “Are you about to turn into a pumpkin?” she whispered, her fingers tightening.

  He shook his head. “By tomorrow morning,” he said, his voice rough.

  “Then we have time? A few more hours?”

  “A few more hours,” Rafferty said.

  “It will have to be enough.” She reached up and kissed him, her mouth open against his, tasting his darkness and sorrow, tasting the decades.

  The apartment was warm and dark and safe. Outside the storm raged, inside all was heat and flesh and love. She wasn’t quite sure how they made it into the bedroom. She was trembling as she closed the door behind them and began to strip the clothes off him, pushing his jacket and shirt onto the floor, reaching for his belt buckle. She half expected him to protest, to take control, but he seemed to know she had to be the one to take the lead, to touch, to kiss, to run her mouth down his chest to the waistband of his trousers, to unfasten the unexpected row of buttons, to touch him, hold him, reveling in the warmth and strength of him, in his muffled groan of pleasure. He was like silk and steel in her hand, pulsing with desire, and she wanted more. In the few short hours remaining she wanted everything, a lifetime to last her through the long empty nights that stretched ahead of her, without him. She’d waited twenty-nine years for him. She wasn’t about to settle for anything less.