by Stuart, Anne
“He’s a friend of mine, Hickory. Sort of. His name is Damien.”
“The reporter,” Hickory said, in a knowing voice. He reached out and put his withered hand on Damien’s arm, and it was all Damien could do not to jerk away. He felt something that was uncannily like a strong electric current from the man’s skin, one that pulsed and flowed. “You are wrong,” he said, looking up into Damien’s eyes. “You worry needlessly.”
“Oh, yeah?” he drawled. “Tell me about it.”
“I would be more than happy to,” he answered seriously. “But you are far from ready to listen. Your ears are full of your own fear and anger, and until wisdom unstops them, what I say will be meaningless.”
“I’m not going to argue with that one.”
“Damien!” Lizzie breathed, shocked at his rudeness.
But Hickory simply nodded, unoffended. “He will know when it is time, mask-maker. When he wishes to hear the truth, bring him back to me. Then I will tell you both of the past, of the future. The present is not as clear. In the meantime, take care of him.”
“It’s supposed to be the other way around,” Lizzie muttered.
Hickory’s smile was beatific. “It’s always best when it goes both ways. Blessings upon the two of you.”
She waited until they were back outside. The streets of Venice were even more raucous than usual, loud music blaring forth from a neighborhood bar. She caught his arm as he started around to the driver’s side of the Austin-Healey and he could feel her fury.
“I told you not to do that.”
“The old man can take care of himself,” he replied.
“You were nasty.”
“I was honest.”
Lizzie glared at him. “So was he. He only wanted to help.”
“Let him help someone who’s a little more gullible,” Damien snapped, more unsettled by the encounter than he wanted to admit. “Past lives. I’ve never heard such crap.”
“He’s right. You’re hopeless.”
“He didn’t say that,” Damien reminded her, prompted by some perverse streak. “He just said I wasn’t ready. You’re supposed to take care of me until I am.”
“I’d like to take care of you, all right,” she snarled.
He kind of liked the threat. “How many more stops?”
It startled her out of her rage. “I beg your pardon?”
“How many more hocus-pocus convenience stores do we drop by? Who else has your masks?”
“No one,” she said, her anger leaving her like a deflated balloon. “Those were the last three places where I thought they might still have a few. At least I can be sure the Ripper didn’t buy them, even if he may have ended up with them.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Didn’t you hear? At The Ruby Tiger the mask was bought by a teenage boy. At The Water’s Edge it was bought by a young woman. This one was bought by a businessman. They can’t be the same person. The Ripper is one person, not three.”
He hesitated before he spoke. She wouldn’t believe him, but he couldn’t just let it pass. “I wouldn’t count on that, Lizzie. I wouldn’t count on a damned thing where the Ripper’s concerned,” he said dourly. “Do you know how many of those masks have been used yet?”
“I’m not certain, but I think two of them. I’m afraid I’ve never paid much attention to where I place my masks. Each store takes two or three, and eventually they pay me. I don’t know which ones end up where.”
“Damned stupid way to run a business.”
“It’s not a business, it’s an art,” she shot back.
“It’s murder, Lizzie.”
“Stop it, Damien!” Her voice was strained, and she controlled herself with an effort. “He used one on the girl in San Bernardino, according to the television reporter.” She looked out into the milling crowd. “That doesn’t mean he’s out of masks. I thought he might have been, but I can’t be sure that all of the ones I’ve made over the years have been accounted for.”
“So he can just keep going. Damn it.” He slammed his fist down on the low hood of the Austin-Healey, making a dent. “Get in the car, Lizzie.”
“Where are we going?”
“That’s up to you. You’ve got enough money for a plane ticket now, without having to accept my filthy lucre.”
“Take me home,” she said. “To my apartment.”
“Are you going to let me come, too? I’m not in the mood for another night in the front seat of this car. My legs are too long.”
She glanced down at his legs, and there was a startled, sexual awareness in her eyes. One she quickly shuttered.
“You could go home,” she said coolly.
“I’m not leaving you. There are too many questions left. And I can’t get rid of the feeling that you hold the answers.”
“I’m not keeping anything from you.”
“Not consciously. Face it, Lizzie, I’m not leaving you. I’m your only chance at staying alive, and I intend to watch over you.”
“A protector,” she murmured, looking both startled and relieved. “Courtland told me someone would show up to do just that.”
“I can’t do it from the front seat of my car,” he said. “Let me come home with you.”
“If you behave yourself,” she said, opening the door and sliding in.
Over the dented roof of his car, he could see the hookers parading down the street, and beyond the feathered and be-shawled window of Hickory’s store he could see the old man looking out at them.
“Behave myself, hell,” Damien muttered. He slid behind the wheel.
Chapter Seven
LIZZIE’S APARTMENT smelled stale and musty. If the police were still watching the place, there was no sign of them when she unlocked the front door, and it took all her self-control not to flinch when she pushed it open. She wasn’t sure what she expected to find, but knowing Damien was standing directly behind her, tall and strong and infinitely infuriating, was some measure of comfort.
She flicked on the overhead lights, and her gaze went immediately, anxiously, to the far wall. All her masks were still in place, not a single one taken. She felt relief course through her, coupled with an irrational feeling of guilt. Her part in this whole ghastly mess wasn’t finished yet.
She watched as Damien prowled the apartment, checking the windows, the doors, poking into her refrigerator and her cupboards. She stood in the middle of the room, watching him. “Are you hungry? I can fix something.”
“No,” he said, closing the kitchen cabinet. “Where do you keep your liquor?”
“I don’t.”
He just looked at her for a moment. “Nothing? Not a bottle of beer, a few inches of Scotch, some wine on its way to becoming vinegar? Hell, cooking sherry will do.”
“I thought you were here to protect me? How can you do that if you’re drunk?” Her own voice was equally caustic.
“I have surprising abilities,” he said, reaching for his cigarettes. “And don’t even think about telling me not to smoke.”
“Obviously I’d better save my breath,” she said. She stared about the neat confines of her first-floor apartment. For the first time, its orderliness didn’t look welcoming. It looked stark and sterile. Only the riotous color of the masks in the far corner where she worked managed to bring any life to the place.
“Nice place,” Damien said, throwing himself down on the sofa and stretching his legs out in front of him. “You hate it.”
“Let’s just say it’s not my taste. I never did feel at home in a hospital.”
“It works for me,” she said, unable to keep the defensive note out of her voice.
“Terrific,” he said. “I suppose I can stand it for a little while.”
“Listen, don’t do me any fav
ors,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”
“You’re going to end up with your throat cut,” he said in a harsh voice. “Unless someone stops him, and nothing you’ve said or done has convinced me that you have the knowledge, the strength, or the sheer evil-minded brutality to outwit him.”
“Do you? Have the evil-minded brutality?”
“I can give it a try.” He surged to his feet, restless, like a caged tiger. “Why don’t you lie down and rest? You look exhausted.”
“What about you? Did you even sleep last night?”
“I slept in the afternoon. That should do me—I don’t usually sleep more than a few hours at a time.” He stalked over to the array of masks, his eyes hooded, brooding, as he surveyed them. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I won’t let the bogeyman get you.”
She stood there, hesitating, uncertain. On the one hand, she trusted him, truly trusted him. She could lie down and sleep, knowing she would be safe.
On the other hand, he was reaching for a mask. And he’d moved with unerring instinct to her most precious one.
She got there before him, picking up the mask of the little girl, bright orange strands of yarn framing a pale, sorrow-filled face. “I thought I might pack these away,” she said, tucking the mask behind her back with what she hoped was a casual air. “Not that it would keep the Ripper away, if he was determined to get them, but at least it might slow him down.”
“It might,” Damien said slowly. “Which mask is that?”
“Which mask is what?” she asked, with what she hoped was an innocent expression.
“The one you have hidden behind your back.”
She wondered whether she could run into the bathroom, lock the door and hide it. She didn’t usually leave that mask out—as a matter of fact, she’d thought she’d put it away. But it had been there among the others; she must have forgotten to hide it.
“Just a mask,” she said, starting to back away.
She’d underestimated how tall he was, or how long his arms were. They slid around her, reaching behind to pluck the mask out of her hands, and his inadvertent embrace startled her enough to make her let go. He stepped back, and she suddenly felt chilled.
It took all her self-control not to snatch the mask out of his hands, to hide it from his too-discerning eyes. “Who is it?” he asked.
“Just a girl,” she said.
“Then why are you so secretive about it?” He brushed some of the orange yarn away from the papier-mâché face, and his hand was gentle, disturbingly so. His eyes narrowed. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” The touch of his hand was enough to make her grab for it, but he jerked it out of her reach, holding her off with his other hand.
“Of course it is,” he said. “You want to explain it to me?”
“No.”
“Do you want it back?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me who it is. I don’t like mysteries. It’s my reporter’s nature. If there’s a secret, I need to ferret it out.”
“It’s none of your damned business.”
“Probably not. I still want to know who it is.”
He was inexorable, and short of kicking him in the shins, there was no way she could take the mask from him without answering his questions.
She grimaced, steeling herself for his reaction. “It’s me, okay?” she said in a defiant tone.
He glanced at the mask. “You’re a little older than this child.”
“It’s supposed to be me when I was five years old.”
“Was your hair really that orange?” There was a beguiling tenderness in his voice, one that unsettled her.
“It was. Please, Damien. Give it to me.”
To her amazement, he did, and she clasped it against her breasts, unconsciously stroking it, comforting it.
“What happened when you were five years old?”
Damn, could he see into her soul. “What makes you think anything happened?”
“The mask.”
“My mother left me in the middle of a highway, somewhere in Pennsylvania. I wasn’t found for three days. My mother was never found.” She clasped the mask tighter. “It’s just the sort of New Age psychobabble you’d hate, Damien. I call her The Inner Child. I tell her she’s loved, that no one will abandon her again.”
She waited for his mocking response, his angry humor. But he said nothing, just looked at her out of hooded eyes. “Go lie down, Lizzie,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “I’ll put the mask away.”
He held out his hand, and for a moment she stared at it. He had beautiful hands, with long fingers and narrow palms, hands with a certain aristocratic grace. And for a brief, horrible moment she wondered what the hands of the Ripper looked like.
She gave him the mask, then turned away before she could regret it. “I’m just going to check my messages,” she said, heading for the machine. She paused, looking down at it, and then glanced back at Damien. Only to see him run those beautiful, deft fingers down the side of the lost child’s face in a compassionate, soothing gesture.
It was the most disturbing thing she’d ever seen. She jerked her glance away to stare down at her machine. “It’s not working,” she said, looking at it numbly. “I remember—it didn’t click in when Adamson called me this morning. I must have turned it off.”
“Did you?”
His question chilled her, and she raised her eyes to meet his. “I never do.”
He crossed the room, reaching in front of her to turn the machine on. The messages started playing, old messages, from Courtland, from Hickory, from one of the stores that usually sold her masks. She’d already heard them all.
“Those are old ones. No one called.”
“What does your message sound like?” He pushed a button, and the brief tone presaged what she expected would be her usual slightly breathless announcement.
The voice that spoke was nothing she’d ever heard. It was neither masculine nor feminine, old nor young, innocent nor guilty. It was indisputably mad.
“Lizzie. Long Liz Stride. I’m here,” the voice crooned, in a rasp. “I’ll be back. And you’ll be found, wearing the child’s mask.” And the voice began to laugh.
In sudden, blind panic Lizzie grabbed the machine, ripping it free from the cords, and flung it across the room. The plastic case shattered, and loose tape began to spit across the floor like an angry snake.
Damien just looked at her. “So much for evidence,” he said dryly. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
She was too numb, too terrified, to react. She let him take her hand, pulling her from the apartment and slamming the door shut behind them. He bundled her into his car, climbing in after her and starting the engine. He pulled out into the midnight traffic and then turned to look at her.
“You okay?” he asked, no sympathy in his voice whatsoever.
It was just as well. She took a deep, struggling breath. “Yes,” she said shakily. “I guess so. Where are we going now?”
“Away from here. We’ll go to my place. It may not be spotless, but I’ve got better security than the CIA.”
She wanted to protest. But even a motel didn’t seem safe. Somehow she trusted Damien, Damien of the cool, unsympathetic voice and the dark, haunted eyes. “Yeah, it looked like it,” she said, in her snottiest voice, pulling herself together by sheer force of will. “I suppose it’ll have to do.”
“I’m not talking about the building. My apartment is safe—no one can get in. As long as we’re holed up in there, no one can get to you.”
“Except you,” she pointed out with deceptive calm. “And I’m not sure if I find the idea of being trapped in that filthy apartment with you any better than the corner of Hollywood and Vine.”
/> His smile was dark and unreassuring. “I don’t have any butcher knives,” he said. “And you can distract yourself by cleaning up the mess.”
“Be still my heart! What woman could refuse such an offer?” she said.
“I’ll keep you alive. It’s a fair trade.”
She looked at him as he drove with an effortless, purposeful grace. She believed him. If anyone could keep her alive, it was this man, with his own torments, the man who had published her connection to the world, a man whose demons threatened to overwhelm him. He would keep her safe, doing a far better job than the assembled might of the Los Angeles Police Department.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”
“No more arguments? Suggestions? Complaints?”
“Just one,” she said calmly. “We stop at a convenience store for cleaning supplies. If I have to die, at least I’m going to do it in a clean apartment.”
THE LOOK ON HER face when they stepped back into his apartment was priceless, Damien thought. Like a countess stepping barefoot on a dead rat, she looked around the ramshackle rooms with a combination of horror and disdain, leavened by just a trace of determination.
She dropped the paper bag full of cleaning supplies on the sofa. “You make dinner,” she said flatly, rolling up her sleeves. “I’ll clean.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Neither am I. You were the one who said we had to eat, to keep up our strength. So fix something,” she said, pulling out a spray bottle of all-purpose cleaner and looking around the apartment with a determined gleam in her eyes.
“I can make three things,” he said. “Scrambled eggs, scrambled eggs and Mexican scrambled eggs.”
“What’s the difference?” She ripped the plastic wrapper off the paper towels and began spraying.
“I put Tabasco and ketchup in the Mexican ones.”
She shuddered. “Sounds ghastly. It’ll be just the thing. In the meantime, why don’t you make me a cup of that herbal tea I bought? Surely you can manage to boil water?”