by Lisa Jackson
The number 101 tattooed onto his flesh…along with the others, including names and the number 212.
It was over all too quickly. The sensual pain suddenly banished as his job was completed.
Blowing out the candles, he doused the fire with water, cleaned the needles and the tubes, wound the cord around the compact machine, and tucked it all into its case. After replacing the tattoo machine inside the desk, he folded the plastic tarp and stowed it away. Then he examined his artwork, tended to it and lay down on his bed, no sheets covering him.
He was done for this night.
But there would be others.
As there had been before.
Some he’d killed quickly. Others more slowly. Releasing their souls to heaven. There had even been one who had been revived, but only one, and that was a long time ago…so long. Tears came to run in hot streaks from the corners of his eyes.
Now, though, that the killing had started once again, it would continue.
That thought pleased him.
The waiting was over.
He closed his eyes and soon the voices came, little chattering, irritating, and garbled pieces of conversation that whirred like bats’ wings in his head.
Go away, he thought. Leave me be…. Let me hear only God…. Let the Voice of the Father find me….
But it was not to be.
By the time sleep found him, the other hissing, crying, wailing voices had eaten away at his peacefulness, had made his muscles tense, his nostrils flare, and his fists clench. The tears that now welled in his eyes were not tears of sorrow but of frustration, and he bit his lip so hard that blood flowed. He nearly screamed aloud. He knew this would be one of those nights. Long, terrible nights. Nights where, when slumber finally did find him, it would be not with peace but with a raging storm of razor-edged nightmares.
Eve’s cell phone shrilled loudly.
Her eyes flew open.
Where am I? What…what is the ringing?…The phone? Where is it?
For a second, Eve was disoriented, the room unfamiliar. She sat up in bed.
“Ssssss!” Startled, Samson hissed, arched his back, then hopped quickly off the coverlet and scrambled to hide under the dresser.
Fumbling for the cell, Eve flipped on the night-table lamp. The room was suddenly bright. She blinked, her heart beating triple-time.
She managed to pick up the phone. “Hello?”
“He’s free,” warned the same low, raspy voice she’d heard before.
Eve sucked in a strangled breath. “Who is this?”
No answer. But he was still on the line. She knew it. Could feel him.
“Listen,” she said, trying to keep the fear from her voice, “who-ever you are, I know that he’s free, okay? So you can quit calling me!”
“Heeee’ssss freeeeeee…” The caller’s voice was so low, so ophidian a hiss, she barely heard it.
Click.
The phone went dead.
“Son of a—” she whispered, pushing her hair out of her face and trying to calm down. Who the hell was harassing her? Phoning her in the middle of the night now, for God’s sake. She stared at the face of her phone, silently praying for a number or name. Of course the call was restricted, and no combination of punching numbers and reading screens and scrolling down menus gave her a clue as to the caller’s identity. Whoever the bastard was, he wanted to remain anonymous while scaring the tar out of her.
Turning out the light, she flopped against the headboard and glanced at her alarm clock where the time was illuminated in glowing red numbers.
Two thirty-six.
Who the hell in his right mind would be calling at…Her own question taunted her. That was the problem. There was no “right mind” about it. Whoever was doing this had one serious screw loose. Probably two or three.
“Hell.”
She lay in the dark, waiting for her pulse to slow. Who was he? Where was he calling from? Why did he feel the need to tell her that Cole was a free man? It was all over the news. And these calls weren’t friendly warnings. No, these were sinister. Evil. Meant to intimidate.
Someone’s trying to terrorize you.
“And doing a damned good job of it,” she admitted as the cat hopped back onto the bed and curled up against her. She petted him absently, glad that she was forgiven.
Why would anyone—
Rap! Rap! Rap!
Her heart nearly stopped. She bit her tongue to keep from screaming. Someone was knocking on the door! Samson lifted his head and stared at the closed door to the bedroom.
Eve hardly dared breathe, but the knocking downstairs continued, a pounding that sounded as if it were coming from the back door. She thought of the bastard who’d just called. Maybe he was checking to see if she were home.
But no one knew she was here!
“Don’t freak out,” she whispered but was already in a near panic. She thought about calling the police but discarded the idea…for now. This was her neighborhood, not some deserted bayou.
Don’t think about the night Roy was killed.
Stay calm…. Be rational….
Without turning on a light, she threw on her robe and hurried to the room her grandfather had used as a den, an extra bedroom on the second floor that, twenty years after his death, still held some of his possessions: pictures of him and his wife, his medical degrees, his favorite old recliner, and his revolver. Thin light from the nearest streetlamp gave her enough illumination to find the gun in the bottom drawer of his desk. The gun wasn’t loaded, and there were no bullets anywhere in the house that she knew of, but she would carry the weapon, along with her cell phone, downstairs just the same.
If she encountered an intruder, he wouldn’t know that the revolver was useless.
Think, she told herself as she eased down the stairs, her eyes accustomed to the darkness. She’d walked down these hallways in the dark hundreds of times as a child and did so now rather than throwing her silhouette in relief and making herself an easy target by turning on a light.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Whoever it was, was banging hard enough on the back door to rattle the window set into the thick oak panels. Certainly no sneak thief would want to call attention to himself. But a crazy person, one hopped up on drugs, someone desperate, just might.
Her fingers tightened over the revolver’s handle as she headed down the long hallway separating the parlor from the dining room, past the bath to the kitchen. Her heart was beating crazily, anxiety firing her blood.
Don’t panic, she told herself, but as she stepped into the mudroom, where she could see through the window cut into the back door, she spied a man on the porch—a tall man, his face hidden in darkness. A little cry escaped her taut throat.
“Who’s there?” she demanded in a strained voice, her fingers gripped around the butt of the gun, her pulse pounding. She aimed the revolver at the window as if she intended to shoot then flipped on the switch for the porch light with her free hand.
The lamp lit weakly, the dim bulb casting the porch in a watery blue light that only seemed to accentuate the shadows as it flickered, threatening to die and leave the stoop in total darkness.
Nonetheless she recognized the man on the other side of the door.
Cole Dennis, big as life, stood on her porch.
CHAPTER 9
Eve didn’t flinch.
She aimed the gun squarely at his chest. As if she intended to blow him and his black heart away.
Cole took one look at her through the glass and froze. Slowly he lifted his arms until both his palms were in the air, his fingers spread wide. “Eve, it’s me!” he shouted through the door.
“What the hell do you want?” she asked, hating how scared she sounded.
“I didn’t know you were here.”
“Then why were you pounding on the door in the middle of the damned night?” She was furious with him, her heart rattling, her mind screaming at her to call the police. Remember what he did to you! Remember l
ooking through another window, at Roy’s cabin, and seeing the gun go off! He was aiming at you, Eve. YOU. He intended to kill you!
A light went on in the neighbor’s upstairs window.
Damn, they were causing a scene. The last thing she needed was the whole neighborhood privy to her personal life. She’d had enough scandal to last her a lifetime.
But this was Cole.
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
A second light shone in Mrs. Endicott’s house, and Eve swore under her breath. If she didn’t want the police and everyone on the block to know what was going on, she’d have to let him inside.
Reluctantly she unlocked the door and let it swing open, leaving the thin barrier of the screen door between them. “You can stop shouting. Say what you need to say, then leave.”
Cole lowered his voice. “I didn’t know you were here when I came by. I just got out of—”
“I know about that. It’s all over the news.”
“—but I saw your car.”
“So you decided to wake me up at two-damned-thirty in the morning?” she mocked, trying to whisper. What the hell was he doing here? Nothing good.
He hesitated, his hands lowered a bit, and he nodded.
“Why?”
“I think you’d better let me inside.”
“No way.” She was shaking her head violently, the short strands brushing the back of her neck.
“Eve, please. This is serious.”
“You bet it is!” Trembling inside, her emotions nearly strangling her, she couldn’t help staring at him. Three months earlier, she’d seen him aim a gun at her, viewed it with her own eyes. Witnessed the blast. Felt the bullet. Suffered the aftereffects.
He lowered his voice even more. “No, I mean it. I need to talk to you.”
“I’ll be damned if you’ll set one foot inside my house. It’s over, Cole. Got it? Over!” She felt in the pocket of her robe with her left hand, found her cell phone, and held it up, all the while training her grandfather’s handgun on his chest. Good Lord, she’d been a fool to love this man so fervently. How blind she’d been. “I’m calling the police.”
“Great.” He frowned, his lips twisting in that familiar thin line of frustration she’d witnessed dozens of times. He muttered something to himself then said, “Go ahead.”
“You don’t think I will? You think I’m bluffing?” She began pressing buttons with her thumb and watched as he scowled into the night.
“I don’t think you know what you’re doing.”
“Nice, Cole. Way to score points.”
“It beats pointing a gun.”
“You should know!”
“Damn it, Eve. I didn’t come over here just to kill time!” He stepped closer to the door. Through the mesh, in the weak light, she noticed how tired he looked, how the crow’s-feet around his eyes were etched deeply into his skin, how his jaw was dark with a day’s growth of beard. “Hear me out.”
“So you can lie to me again? So you can kill me?”
“I never tried to harm you,” he insisted angrily, his gaze finding hers in the darkness. Blue eyes so serious, so sincere, she wanted to cry out, to trust him. But she didn’t dare. Couldn’t trust herself. “I never put your life in jeopardy.”
“Liar!”
“You know it, Eve. Deep in your heart, you know I would never do anything to hurt you.”
“I saw you, Cole.”
“No.” He held one hand lower, palm flat as if to stop the tirade he sensed was coming. “You think you saw me. But you’re not sure. That’s why you couldn’t testify. Your memory’s messed up.”
“You were there,” she insisted, trying to convince herself. Hadn’t this been the problem all along, that she hadn’t believed what her eyes, or trusted what her damned faulty memory, had told her had to have happened? And the ADA had known it. Yolinda Johnson had said as much. “I know what I saw.”
“Do you?”
She waggled the gun. “Don’t try any of this BS with me. Got it? All your wow-the-judge-and-jury tactics don’t work with me.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“The ‘truth.’” She sighed and noticed another light in the neighbor’s house switch on. Damn it all to hell! No doubt Mrs. Endicott could hear the argument. “That’s the problem, Cole. You’re deluded. You wouldn’t know the truth if it sat down to dinner with you.”
“I’m not the one who’s suffering from amnesia.”
“That’s right. Your memory is selective. You choose to believe what you want to believe. I don’t get that luxury. You know what’s sick about this? You actually believe all the crap you’re peddling my way.”
Some repressed emotion flashed in his eyes, and his lips flattened over his teeth. “Fine.” He drew a breath deep into his lungs. “But I think you might want to know about your dad.”
“My dad?”
“Terrence.”
“I know who he is.” Her composure cracked a little. She wanted to think that he was baiting her, but there was something in his serious expression that kept her from arguing. “What about him?” she asked, but as the words passed her lips and he looked at her again, she caught a glimmer of something that squeezed her heart with dread.
“I think it would be better if I came inside.”
She paused, her pulse drumming.
Could she trust Cole Dennis?
Not as far as she could throw him.
This was probably some kind of trick.
“We’re fine this way.”
“I’m serious, Eve.”
“So am I.”
“It’s not good news.” He hesitated as if he were trying to decide how to deliver the news.
Her insides turned to ice. He wasn’t bluffing. Swallowing back a mounting sense of dread, she dropped her cell phone on the counter, unlocked the screen door, pulled it open, and stepped to one side. “Just don’t tell me he’s dead,” she said.
“Eve…” His voice was unsteady.
Her mouth opened in horror. No. It was a trick! It had to be. A way to gain her sympathy. “I–I don’t believe you.”
But his face was white and stern. “I just came from there. I found him on the floor of his den. Someone killed him, Eve. Just like they killed Roy.”
Her legs started to give way, and she backed up into the kitchen, where she leaned against the counter to avoid collapsing. He wouldn’t lie about this, would he? Even Cole wouldn’t stoop so low.
Don’t trust him, don’t trust him, do NOT trust him!
Anxiety skittered up her spine. Somehow she managed to flip on the light over the sink. She caught sight of her weak reflection in the window: a thin woman with haunted eyes, pale lips, and short, streaked hair that, in some spots, had barely started to grow out to cover the scars. “You said…You, uh, said you didn’t think I’d be here…. Why were you…Oh God!” She gasped as he moved into the room, into the illumination.
Dried blood so dark, it seemed brown had stained the hem of his white T-shirt. “Cole?” she whispered, horrified. What had he done? Terror widened her eyes.
He followed her glance down, noticing the stain. “It’s not like that. Eve, you know I had nothing to do with this.”
“With…?”
Her body was shaking from the inside out. Her stomach roiled. Nausea climbed up her throat, and she dry-heaved into the sink. The gun nearly fell out of her hand as she clutched the edge of the counter for support. Her father was dead? Dead? She retched again, spitting bile, her brain pounding with denial. No! No! No, no, no, no! She couldn’t, wouldn’t believe it. Cole was a practiced actor, a lawyer, for crying out loud. A liar!
“He called me…I thought it was him, and I went to see him. When I got there, he didn’t answer the door. It was unlocked. I went in and found him in the den.”
She looked up, wiped the back of her hand across her lips. “How?” she squeaked, fighting tears and the grasping fear that clawed at her brain.
Cole’s
arms had fallen to his sides. He looked like hell. His eyes were sunken, his usually tanned face pale. “It was just like Roy, Eve. Just like Roy. Your father’s throat was slit. There was blood all over…. Oh Christ, Eve, it was—”
“Stop.”
“—the same.”
“I don’t know why you’re here, why you’re doing this to me. It’s unfathomable…. It’s…”
“I tried to revive him and failed. He’s dead, Eve.”
Blood rushed noisily through her brain. “You just got out of prison. Today. Why would anyone…anyone but you kill my father?” She drew in a shaky breath and felt sick again. From the corner of her eye, she saw her cat pause in the shadows of the hallway.
“Eve.” He looked stricken. “I had no reason to kill him.”
“Since when are your actions reasonable, Cole? You tried to kill me, and now my father…Why are you here now? To finish me off?” she said, fighting down hysteria.
“Stop it, Eve. For Christ’s sake, listen to me. I thought you were in Atlanta.”
“Why the hell are you here, Cole? Why did you come here if you thought I was still in Atlanta?”
He hesitated.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t lie to me.” Samson, as if sensing the tension in the air, took off, disappearing into the shadows. Eve straightened, her back stiffening though she felt tears tracking down her face. “The least you can do is tell me the truth.”
One hand closed into a fist then opened. “I was going to hide some things here,” he admitted.
“What? Here?” She sniffed loudly and shook her head. She didn’t believe him. She swiped at her tears with the sleeve of her robe. “What things? Incriminating evidence?”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“What things?” she demanded.
“Money.”
“Money?” she repeated, shaking her head.
“Yes. And a briefcase.”
“Yours?”
Another beat.
“Whose briefcase, Cole?”
“Your father’s.”