I'm Watching You

by Karen Rose

  That’s not all I need to tell you. There’s something wrong with me.

  Please don’t mind. Please don’t let it matter.

  I love you.

  His eyes flashed, brilliant blue. “Say it again. I want to know you mean me to hear it.”

  To deny him was never an option. “I love you,” she whispered.

  Roughly he pushed her to her back and followed her down, his mouth taking unquestionable possession of hers, his hands cupping her face, his body insistently thrusting. “Tell me you want me.”

  “I want you.” She did. Throbbing a primal rhythm in response to his passion, her body lifted against him. Her hands clumsily pulled at his shirt until she’d parted it to his waist, touching his chest, shuddering when he groaned.

  He stripped away her robe and knelt between her legs, yanking at his cuffs until the buttons popped off. She sat up and holding his gaze, unhooked her bra and dropped it off the side of the bed. He did the rest, getting rid of her panties and his pants, then he stopped. And he stared. And her mouth went dry.

  This wasn’t the slow, considerate lover she’d known. He was frantic, shaking, hanging on to his control by a thread. She severed that thread when she grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down on her. Their kisses were wild and open-mouthed, lips and cheeks and any piece of skin they could reach until she was vibrating under him.

  “Abe, do it. Now.”

  And he did, entering her hard and deep, groaning into her mouth when she cried out. He plunged wildly, taking them higher with every thrust into her body. She felt the now familiar tightening of her inner muscles, a miracle after so many years alone, then she fell into the heaven she’d found only with this man, her climax stunning in its strength. But what was the true gift was the expression on his face, the stark beauty of his features as he reached his own peak, the shudder of his body as he spilled himself into her.

  He collapsed on top of her, his chest heaving as he struggled for breath. She stroked his broad back and waited, knowing the instant he came back to himself. He stilled, drew a deep breath. And said the words she’d waited a lifetime to hear.

  “I love you, too.” Then he rolled them to their sides, cupping her buttocks and pulling her close so they remained as one.

  A long time later, well after she’d thought him asleep, she felt the rumble of his voice against her cheek. “Kristen, I’m sorry. I forgot about protection.”

  “It’s all right,” she murmured.

  He didn’t say anything for a minute. “So the timing’s not right?” he asked, tentatively. She heard disappointment in his tone, faint, but there.

  She swallowed convulsively. “No, it’s not right.”

  And it never would be.

  I’ll never have the child you want, Abe.

  She waited for the words to spill from her mouth, wished they would tumble as effortlessly as all the other thoughts had. But Abe was obviously right. That only worked when she really wanted him to hear it. Because this, she didn’t. Not now, not ever.

  Saturday, February 28, 9:00 A.M.

  She hurt.

  It was the first coherent thought Zoe had as she surfaced from the fog that enveloped her.

  She was moving. That was the second thought. There was an eerie sense of floating. Then reality began to descend and with it the vile, unbearable images.

  Oh, God, I hurt. He hurt me. She shuddered, remembering the brutality she’d endured at the hands of Drake Edwards. She tried to whimper, but her voice was gone. She blinked, tried to determine her surroundings. There was white. Lots of white. Maybe I’m dead. Please let me be dead. Death was preferable to Drake Edwards. The movement slowed and she became aware of doors, of passing through doors, then the movement stopped.

  “How long before she comes to?”

  Nooo. Again she wanted to whimper, again no voice. It was Edwards. He was here. Dammit. She wasn’t dead.

  “Looks like she’s awake now. The drug should fully wear off in an hour.” The other voice was new. Who? What drug? “Until then she won’t move or speak.”

  “Good.” There was satisfaction in Edwards’s voice. She’d heard it often since he’d stolen her from her apartment. “I want her to be able to claw and scream.”

  There was silence from the other man and then Edwards’s cruel chuckle.

  “You’re not paid to like it. You’re paid to just do it.”

  A sigh. “If we take out the padding, they both will fit.”

  Padding? Frantically, she tried to look around, but her head wouldn’t move. She strained her peripheral vision to the left. And her breath hitched.

  It was a coffin. She wanted to scream.

  “I don’t care how you accomplish it,” Edwards said. “Just do it.” His face appeared above her and a wave of nausea threatened to choke her. He smiled, the same predatory smile she’d seen in Conti’s office. When had that been? What was today?

  “You asked for an interview with Jacob, Miss Richardson,” he said mockingly. “Unfortunately, Mr. Conti is occupied this afternoon. It’s his son’s funeral. He has, however, arranged for an alternate interview. Talk as long as you like.” He moved her head, turning it so that she could see his body to her right. “It’s Emmy material.”

  He moved away, laughing softly, allowing her full view of what lay to her right.

  Zoe’s heart froze in her chest. It was a body in a black suit. With no face.

  It was Angelo Conti. They were going to bury her with Angelo Conti. She screamed and screamed, but the sound echoed only inside her head.

  Saturday, February 28, 11:15 A.M.

  It was the first time Kristen had been in a Catholic church and she had no idea what to do. Luckily there were a lot of Reagans present, so all she had to do was follow along. There were benches on which to kneel and congregational readings to recite. There was the sacrament of Communion and the thundering organ. There was a priest in full regalia, swinging incense and a gold baptismal font next to which stood a beaming Sean and Ruth.

  There was family. So much family it made Kristen’s heart ache. There were also more than a dozen cops in the pews, all carrying firearms. Friends of Kyle, Aidan, and Abe, all there to ensure there was no trouble from Conti or anyone else. Mia came, as did Spinnelli. Todd Murphy was even there, his suit freshly pressed.

  Kristen watched as the priest took the baby, smiling into her little face. The deep breath she drew didn’t go unnoticed by Abe at her side. “Beautiful, isn’t she?” he murmured.

  Kristen felt the sting of tears. “Yes.”

  “This is where the godparents are recognized,” he whispered. “Annie is godmother and Ruth’s cousin Franklin is godfather.”

  Abe watched as Annie and Franklin took their places. He’d been the first choice as godfather for Jeannette, who was now five, but he’d just gone undercover and couldn’t take full responsibility for his vows. Reagans took their vows seriously, after all. Aidan got to be Jeannette’s godfather and Abe missed out on the joy of watching her grow from infancy to the happy child she was today.

  He and Debra had chosen Ruth and Sean as their son’s godparents. Of course they’d never gone through the ceremony. Perhaps they could be called on when he and Kristen christened their first child. Warmed within, he took her hand, squeezed it lovingly.

  She looked up at him with a smile that didn’t come close to reaching her wet eyes. She’d been through so much this week. It was hard to know what lurked in the shadows behind her brittle smile. So much pain. He thought of the little girl, Savannah. Thought of the pain Kristen must feel every year when a new photograph arrived in the mail. He knew it. It was the same pain he felt every year when his son’s birthday came and went without celebration. He thought of the night before, how she’d told him she loved him. How natural it had been to love her. He looked down at her profile, felt his body stir. He’d come inside her last night with no barriers between them. She’d been so sure they were safe, that it was the wrong time. He smiled. He was
Catholic after all. Half the people he knew got their start during the “safe” time of the month. Maybe she’d be wrong, too.

  He slid his arm around her shoulders, pulled her close. And imagined the day they would stand next to the priest and the baby he held would have tiny red curls and big green eyes. His life had finally begun again. He felt reborn and Kristen was the reason.

  Saturday, February 28, 12:00 P.M.

  Drake slid into the pew next to Jacob and Elaine. Elaine sat numb, stoned out of her mind. Jacob held her hand and shouldered the grief for them both as he stared at the coffin. Perhaps the fact that a portion of his vengeance was complete would be a balm.

  “It’s done, Jacob,” he murmured.

  Jacob didn’t move a muscle, just sat staring at the coffin. “Good.”

  Saturday, February 28, 12:15 P.M.

  “Nice party, Abe,” Mia said, walking up to him with a cup of punch in her hand. “Would be nicer if the punch were fortified, but it’s still nice.”

  “It’s a christening, Mia,” Abe said with a smile.

  “Hey, everybody’s got to learn to party sometime.” She looked around the church hall, her eyes sharp. “I think you’ve got enough coverage. I just got a call from Miss Keene, the hat lady. She found her high school annuals, and they have pictures of Robert Barnett.”

  Abe’s pulse leaped. “Maybe we can finally figure out what ties Paul Worth, Robert Barnett, and those bullets to Leah Broderick. Do you want me to come?”

  “Nah, you’ve got family stuff. I can handle Miss Keene. She likes me, you know.”

  Abe gave her a steady look. “Lots of people do.”

  Mia looked away. “Ray would have liked you, Abe. I’ll bring the yearbooks back here.”

  Abe stared after her as she walked away, knowing approval from her former partner was one of the highest forms of praise he could ever expect. Then his own cell phone trilled, and he let the moment go. “Reagan.” He listened, every nerve ending suddenly buzzing. “We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

  He looked around and found Kristen talking with Aidan. He made a beeline and watched her expression change as she read the urgency in his face.

  “What now?” she asked, her tone low.

  “You got another envelope. Aidan, can you tell Sean and Ruth how sorry we are? Let’s get our coats and go.”

  Saturday, February 28, 12:50 P.M.

  Kristen stood on her front porch, frowning at the envelope. “It’s not a box. He always leaves a box.”

  A car pulled up behind the cruiser and Jack got out. “It’s not a box,” he said.

  “We know, Jack,” Abe said. “Let’s open it and find out why.”

  “I hope this is fast,” Jack muttered, waving to his car where Julia sat waiting. In the back was a small boy in a car seat. Jack blushed. “We’re going to the circus.”

  Kristen’s smile was weak, but sincere. “I’m glad, Jack. Let’s get this over with so you don’t disappoint him.”

  Jack stopped abruptly at the sight of her gutted kitchen. “Did you do this?”

  “Only part of it. I had some help.”

  Jack spread white paper on her table. “Let’s see now.” He shook the envelope and two pieces of paper slid out. He handed the letter to Kristen and unfolded the other sheet.

  “Oh, God,” Kristen gasped. She held her hand over her mouth and looked sick.

  Abe looked down at the unfolded paper and it was as if he’d taken a sledgehammer to the head. It was a political poster. Geoffrey Kaplan for Kansas it blazed, and below was a picture of a bland, balding man.

  He was looking at Kristen’s rapist. Dear God.

  “This is him?” he asked and she nodded, her hand still clamped over her mouth. “How did he know?” Abe demanded. “Dammit, Kristen, how did he know this?”

  She sank into her chair, horrified. “I don’t know.” She looked over her shoulder at the window. “Was he listening?”

  Jack squatted down to look up into Kristen’s face. “Who is he?”

  Her eyes flew to Abe’s, silently beseeching.

  “Think, Jack,” Abe said quietly. “Think about what Kristen said to the Erickson girl on the phone yesterday morning.”

  Jack paled. “No.”

  Kristen’s hands were shaking. “I only told you, Abe. The only time I’ve ever talked about him was sitting here in this kitchen with you on Thursday night. Either he was listening at the window or he’s bugged this room.”

  Jack looked around the room, every wall picked clean. “The only place to hide it is under the table. Help me, Abe.” Together they flipped the table and Jack searched. “Nothing here that I can see. Wait.” He was gone for just a moment. “Somebody was out there at some point. The thaw started Thursday morning, so I could believe he was out there Thursday night. You’ve also had something going on by that shed out there.”

  “I can answer that.” McIntyre came in from outside. “There was a small disturbance in the backyard and I saw smoke. When I went to investigate, I found a smoke bomb. I ran back around to the front porch and found the envelope.”

  “Diversion,” Abe muttered. “When was this?”

  “Two minutes before I called you,” McIntyre said. “I called a unit to sweep the neighborhood, looking for a white van, but they haven’t found anything yet.”

  “Read the letter, Kristen,” Abe said.

  “I can’t.” She was shaking like a leaf.

  Abe took the letter. It was handwritten on a plain sheet of white paper in a flowing hand. “ ‘My dearest Kristen. I can’t tell you how sorry I am to have caused you and your friends and family so much pain. My intention was only to make you feel safe and vindicated. I will not send you any more letters, but I wanted you to have this last ultimate retribution. I have avenged you, my dear. The man who stole your innocence and youth will never harm anyone again. I remain as always, Your Humble Servant.’ ”

  Kristen’s face was stunned. “And the P.S.?”

  “ ‘Good-bye.’ ”

  Saturday, February 28, 1:00 P.M.

  He sat on the basement step, staring at the three men he’d bound to tables. All three stared back, eyes glassy with shock and pain.

  Judge Edmund Hillman, attorney Gerald Simpson, and rapist Clarence Terrill.

  He looked down at the gun in his right hand, then at his left. Leah’s medallion. He’d worn it around his neck, on his own chain, since they’d removed it from her body at the morgue. He turned it, let it hit the light. Looked at the engraved initials as he’d done so many times before. WWJD. What would Jesus do?

  He closed his eyes. Not what he’d done. Never what he’d done.

  In the background droned the sound of his own voice, reading the transcript from Leah’s trial. He’d made the CD weeks ago, when he’d planned this final scene. He’d left it to play on an endless loop while he’d driven to Kansas. These men must have heard it play ten, twenty times by now. Maybe more.

  Then he’d driven to Kansas. That he’d killed Kaplan was a foregone conclusion. The man deserved to die. That he’d done it in such a blind, animal rage…

  Then he’d looked into the eyes of that child. She’d seen him.

  And he actually lifted his gun to kill her, too.

  She’d said nothing, Kaplan’s child. She’d just stood there as he rose from the garage floor like a monster in a horror film, bloody and insane with the rage that had taken over his mind. She’d just stood there looking at him over her father’s car, her eyes wide and frozen.

  He’d almost killed a defenseless child. A child who’d harmed no one. An innocent. And in that moment he knew what he’d become.

  He’d become just like those he’d come to hate.

  He’d lowered the gun to his side. Dropped the tire iron, then run to his van, and driven for miles before stopping to wash himself in the snow. There was red all around as he scrubbed and scrubbed. Finally, he got back in his van and drove the long hours back to Chicago, back to Kristen’s house, where
he’d parked a block away, created a diversion, dropped off his final envelope and come home.

  He was cold. He ached. But he still had a job to do. He always finished what he started. Heavily, he pulled himself to his feet and moved to switch off the CD player, feeling three sets of eyes watching his every move. Silence filled the room.

  “I hope you remember Leah Broderick,” he said. “She was my daughter. She’s dead.”

  “I didn’t kill her.” This defiant little moan from Clarence Terrill. He turned to look at the man who’d defiled his child. Unremorseful until the bitter end.

  He lifted the gun and pulled the trigger and Clarence Terrill was defiant no more. He turned to Simpson who was sobbing, begging for mercy. “And you portrayed her as a whore, stripping away what little self-esteem she had left.” Another shot, and Simpson went limp. “There’s your mercy.” He turned to Hillman who could only stare back in terror.

  “And you, Judge Hillman. I perhaps hold you at greatest fault of all. You swore to uphold the law, but you abused it. In the weeks that I’ve thought about this day, I planned to hold a mock trial where I would be the judge. But there’s no point to such theatrics. I’m finished.” With no further ado, he ended the judge’s life with far more mercy than the man deserved.

  He was so tired. But he had one more letter to write. He looked at the gun he held in his hand, smelled the acrid odor of discharged powder. Then he’d join Leah.

  Saturday, February 28, 2:00 P.M.

  Through all the horror of the past week and a half, Abe had never seen Kristen looking so fragile. She sat on her sofa, so pale. A phone call to Kaplan’s town sheriff confirmed that Kaplan was indeed dead. His wife had found him savagely beaten to death in his own garage. The local authorities had thought it a robbery gone wrong. But what had seemed the final blow to Kristen’s composure was finding out Kaplan’s wife had found her child standing at the garage entrance, in shock. What the child had seen, nobody knew because she’d withdrawn, saying nothing. But there were prints this time. Bloody prints everywhere. He’d cracked. Their killer had finally cracked.