Omens ct-1

by Kelley Armstrong

  He pressed the paper into my hand. “My second cousin Grace owns a walk-up there. She’ll set you up. Give her that note, though, or she might try to tell you she doesn’t have a room. She’s a fickle old bat.”

  I unfolded the paper. On it was an address and a note. “Give this girl a room.” Signed “Jack in Chicago.”

  “Thank—” I looked up, but he was already back at his apartment door.

  “Thank you,” I called.

  He nodded and went inside.

  ——

  I had no intention of moving to a small town, particularly one I’d never heard of. I appreciated the kind gesture, but I saw no life for me outside Chicago.

  I tried a couple more apartments, in even worse neighborhoods, then surrendered to exhaustion and found a hotel. A motel, actually. The kind I’d only ever seen on TV, usually where the bad guys holed up until the cops came busting through the door. Two stories of dirty brick, rusty metal railing along the second floor, neon sign out front promising clean rooms, as if that was a selling point you wouldn’t find elsewhere. At thirty-nine dollars a night, it probably was.

  I was so tired that when the desk clerk did a double-take, I told myself he didn’t actually recognize me. Even when he surreptitiously checked a newspaper under the desk, I stood my ground. This was going to happen, so I’d better just get used to it.

  He didn’t deny me a room. Just fumbled through the check-in process, not even asking for a credit card deposit when I said I’d be paying cash. He messed up on the room rate, too, charging me twenty-nine. Or maybe, considering who my biological parents were, he thought it best to give me a discount. I didn’t care. It was money saved, and I was quickly realizing I’d need every penny, even the lucky one nestled in my pocket.

  My room was just big enough to hold a double bed, a tiny table, and a dresser of scuffed particle board. The pink and brown polyester bedspread had a bizarrely intricate design, probably to disguise stains. Matching curtains. As advertised, the room was clean. Or clean enough if you didn’t look too carefully.

  I made it as far as the bed, dropped onto it, and sat there for at least an hour. I wanted to cry. Sob into the pillow and vent all the day’s frustration and loneliness. But I was too tired to manage it. Too empty.

  I finally fell back onto a bedspread that stank of spilled beer and sex, and I didn’t care. I just lay there and tried not to think about how much I missed home and how upset I was with my mother and how badly I wanted to hear Dad tell me everything would be okay.

  I thought of calling James. Just to let him know I was all right.

  Instead I called my mother. I blocked my number as I did, telling myself that I had to because otherwise she’d use it to call me later. In truth, I blocked it because it gave me an excuse if she didn’t use it later.

  No one answered the new cell number she’d given me. It didn’t even ring to voice mail, suggesting the number had been disconnected. So I phoned Howard. When I announced myself, there was a pause, as if he was wondering whether he could accidentally hang up. First thing I was doing when I got things under control again? Firing his ass.

  “I’m trying to get in touch with Mum,” I said. “I want to let her know I’m okay.”

  “You told her that this morning, Olivia.”

  I gritted my teeth. “And I’d like to tell her again. More important, I want to make sure she’s okay.”

  “She is. Her friends have come to her rescue.” There was a note of accusation in his voice, as if I’d abandoned her, and I was about to snap back and remind him who advised me to stay away, but he continued, “They’ve taken her to Europe for a few weeks.”

  “What?”

  “Your mother is taking this very hard, Olivia. She needs a break, and she deserves one. I will pass on messages, though I ask you to keep them to a minimum so as not to disturb her.”

  Disturb her? She hadn’t just found out she was the daughter of serial killers.

  “Olivia, your mother asked me to make sure you have everything you need.”

  I need my mother.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Money, of course. I’ve been authorized to wire you ten thousand now and another ten thousand next…”

  He kept talking. I didn’t hear him. I just sat there, staring into space, clutching the phone, feeling tears prickle the back of my eyes.

  I don’t want money. I don’t need money. I need help. Support. A mother. My mother.

  No, I needed my dad. I really, really needed my dad.

  I told Howard the money could wait until I was settled. A lie. I would no more take it than I’d accept charity from a stranger on the street. That’s what it felt like.

  “One more thing,” I said. “I hate to make you play messenger, but with every person I contact, there’s more chance of the media finding me…”

  “Yes, there is. Who would you like me to call?”

  “James. Tell him I’m fine.” I paused. “Tell him I’m fine and … tell him I’m sorry.”

  I hung up before I said more. I sat there for a few minutes, fighting the overwhelming loneliness. Then I ate the sandwich I’d grabbed earlier and crawled into bed, still dressed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I didn’t want to take sleeping pills, but without the knockout dose, a dream came. Except it wasn’t a nightmare. It was a dream I’d had for as long as I could remember. My favorite one, so warm and familiar that if I woke up from it, I’d burrow back under my covers and try to find it again.

  I was sitting in a garden, arranging polished white stones on a flat black rock. I’d make one design, then sweep it away and craft another. There was no feeling that I wasn’t pleased with the design and needed to try again. Each one was perfect. Each one had meaning.

  Somewhere to my left, a woman laughed. A man responded, his voice low, teasing, and she laughed again. I didn’t look over. Just smiled and kept laying down rocks, each making a soft, satisfying click.

  Tiny tropical birds flitted around me. Living jewels, sometimes landing on the rock, heads tilting as they chirped encouragement.

  The heady scent of flowers filled the air. They were everywhere, in as many colors as the birds, rich reds and yellows and purples. Even the greenery was bright emerald, as lush as a rain forest.

  Water burbled in front of me, a natural waterfall, tumbling into the rock pool below. As droplets sprayed my sun-bathed face, I licked them from my lips. Sweet, clean water. I’d take a drink in a moment, just as soon as I finished this last design.

  I had to work harder at this one, dredging it up from memory. Three stones to the left, four to the … Or was it the other way around?

  I sat back on my heels. A lock of hair fell over my shoulder and I pushed it back, my fingers brushing the lace. I reached down and adjusted my dress, really just an excuse to touch it. A beautiful, white dress with a long skirt that stretched down to tiny white sandals. My garden dress.

  A bird flew past. A big, black one I hadn’t seen before. A raven. I rose and stared after it as it swooped into the shadowy darkness beyond the waterfall.

  I started going after it. A soft cry sounded behind me, then footsteps.

  “Eden!” a voice called.

  I turned. A figure stepped from the bushes, smiling as he approached. His face was hidden by the glare of the sun on the water. When he got to me, he leaned down to stroke my hair.

  “Stay here, sweetheart. You know you aren’t supposed to leave the garden.”

  I bolted up so fast I tumbled out of bed, legs entwined in the covers. I hung there, hands braced against the carpet, disoriented and panting before I realized where I was and pushed myself back up.

  I struggled not to hyperventilate as the dream played back.

  Eden. Garden.

  Oh God. My dream. My wonderful, beautiful dream. It wasn’t a dream at all, but my sleeping brain prodding me with the reminder of another life, another me.

  I pressed my palms to my eyes and sat there, s
truggling not to cry. Of everything to cry over, this? Foolish. And yet…

  I swiped away the first threat of tears, then popped a sleeping pill, swallowed it dry, and lay back down. Sat up and popped another one. Sleep didn’t come quickly, but it did come.

  I woke again in the dark, groggy now. I’d dreamed … No, I hadn’t been dreaming. Something else woke me. I lay there in the darkness and listened. Getting up and flicking on the light would be the smart move, but panic buzzed, deep in my skull, telling me to stay where I was.

  Lie still. Look. Listen.

  There was nothing to see. The room wasn’t completely dark—I’d been too tired to close the curtains properly and a strip of moonlight bisected the floor, the end dissolving across the bed. I looked around at the landscape of shadows and saw just a dresser and a bed and a tiny table, with its single chair.

  Hadn’t there been two chairs before? I was about to lift my head when that buzzing in my skull stopped me.

  Lie still. Look. Listen.

  The table was barely two feet across. Too small for more than a single person. I was misremembering the second chair. It wasn’t as if I’d taken careful inventory.

  Nothing to see, then. Nothing to hear, either. No, I could detect sounds. The mumble of a distant television. The screech of a passing car. The clatter and sigh of the water pipes.

  In my room, though, I could hear only the soft in-and-out of my breathing. A faint rasp to it, like the first tickle of a cold. Exactly what I needed. Did my throat ache, too?

  I moved my hand to touch my throat. Something rubbed my wrist.

  No, something rubbed around my wrist. I’d taken off my watch. I knew I had, and this wasn’t the rub of a gold band. It was softer, smaller. Like a cord—

  That buzz of alarm shrieked before I could jerk my arm.

  Don’t move.

  There’s something around my—

  Don’t move!

  A hiss of breath. I froze and I swear my bladder convulsed, with a tingle deep in my groin that had me clenching tight.

  I clenched everything tight, going rigid as I strained to listen.

  Breathing. Quiet breathing, ragged and raspy at the edges.

  Not my breathing.

  Where’s the second chair?

  I knew without turning my head. There was only one place it could be, the only spot too dark for me to see, the same spot the breathing came from.

  The other side of the bed.

  I moved my hand, barely an inch, sweat beading as I struggled not to jerk or pull suddenly. There was definitely something around my wrist. Soft, loose. Another inch. It started to tighten.

  I closed my eyes and willed my heart to slow. Don’t panic. Oh God, don’t panic.

  Don’t panic? I’m bound to the goddamn—

  Don’t panic!

  I sucked in a breath as deeply as I dared. Then I shifted my legs, as if moving them in sleep, brushing them together as I did.

  Okay, there was nothing around my ankles. Nothing around my other wrist either, because if I’d stop freaking out for a second, I’d realize I could see my other hand, on the moonlit bedspread.

  Bound to the headboard by one wrist. Bound loosely by a cord. Which would tighten if I jumped up.

  So don’t panic.

  If I moved my hand up, toward the headboard, I’d give the cord more slack. Then I could work it off. I’d just slide my hand—

  A hitch in the breathing. A squeak of the chair.

  I snapped my eyes shut. Then I lay there, blind, every nerve straining, as if I could somehow sense if I was in danger. Only I couldn’t. Someone was right beside me, maybe even leaning over me, knife moving to my—

  Oh God, oh God.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  A soft grunt, almost sounding disappointed. Another squeak as the intruder settled back into the chair.

  Moving so slowly that my neck ached, I turned my head an inch toward his side of the bed. Then I waited. Counted to ten as sweat trickled down my cheek.

  At ten, I waited two more excruciating seconds. Then I cracked open my eyes. It took a moment for my vision to adjust. When it did, I saw a figure sitting beside the bed.

  If I opened my eyes just a little more—

  No. Just wait.

  After a moment, the figure began to manifest features. Dark hair cut short. A round face. Wide nose. Clean shaven.

  The goddamned desk clerk.

  That bastard. That scrawny, greasy bastard. Did he really think—?

  A faint tug on my left wrist as my hand involuntarily clenched. I quickly released it and inhaled through my mouth.

  Okay, anger was far more satisfying than panic, but no less likely to get me in serious trouble. If this guy had me bound to my bed, he’d probably brought either a knife or a gun. I had to relax and get free.

  Earlier, I’d thought he recognized me. He hadn’t. What he’d seen was the same thing the sleazy landlord had seen. A young woman alone. Uncertain. Exhausted. Vulnerable.

  The perfect victim.

  I must have forgotten to fasten the chain. He’d used his master key to get into my room and bound my wrist to the bed. Now he was watching me sleep. Waiting for that moment when I’d wake, still sleepy, blissfully ignorant. When I’d stretch and the cord would tighten and I’d realize what had happened. When I realized what would happen and became completely, deliciously, helplessly terrified.

  If I was only bound by one hand, and I knew about it—and him—that gave me an advantage. Leap up and get free. Rob him of his moment of terror and—

  “Are you awake?” His whisper slithered past.

  I shut my eyes fast.

  The chair squeaked again as he got up. This time I did sense him leaning over me. Heard his raspy breathing getting closer, closer…

  He was so close that when he moved, his sleeve brushed my bare arm and goose bumps sprang up.

  My throat constricted. I had to swallow. No, I couldn’t swallow. It would give me away. Just lie perfectly still—

  I had to swallow. I couldn’t breathe. Oh God, I couldn’t—

  Something brushed my cheek. The touch was so light that it took a moment for my brain to register the feeling. Not warm skin. Not cool fabric. Cold metal.

  My bladder convulsed once more.

  Oh God, oh God. I had to do something. Now. Before—

  A metallic click, right over my ear. I leapt up, limbs flailing. He stumbled back. Metal flashed in his hand. I swung at it, with my free fist. I hit his arm and his fingers flew open, the knife falling to the bed.

  Not a knife. Scissors. A lock of my hair still jammed between the blades.

  I grabbed for it, but he was faster, whacking the scissors with his open palm and sending them sailing onto the floor.

  I lunged and the cord around my wrist tightened so fast it wrenched my shoulder. I spun, scrabbling back up the bed and clawing at the cord. But when it tightened, the knot tightened, too, and I couldn’t slide it back, couldn’t loosen it.

  “Don’t do that,” he said. “You’re only going to hurt yourself, Eden.”

  The hairs on my back rose, like a cat’s. A flash of rage, white-hot. It evaporated as fast as it formed, leaving my heart pounding, throat constricting again.

  He did recognize me.

  That’s what this is about. Who I am. Who my parents are. He’s going to—

  “Eden?”

  I inched up to the headboard, turned and crouched there, my free hand still working at the knot. He stood with the scissors in his hand. When my gaze shot there, he lowered them. The hair was gone now. Fallen free, I thought, then I saw it behind him, on the dresser top, one pale curl carefully laid out.

  I looked at him again. Yes, it was the desk clerk, but not the way I’d remembered him when I’d been lying in bed. Not a greasy slimeball. His hair was clean. His face was clean. His clothing was clean. I could say he’d washed up, but I realized this was how he’d looked in the office when he checked me in. I’d just misrememb
ered. Reimagined him the way I’d picture a guy who’d sneak into a woman’s hotel room to rape her.

  I knew that predators came in every form, but I couldn’t help staring at him. He looked too ordinary, too quiet, too well mannered.

  A man that a single woman wouldn’t mind sitting next to on a crowded train.

  A man like Todd Larsen.

  “My—my name isn’t—”

  “Eden Tiffany Larsen. A pretty name for a pretty girl.”

  “No, my name is—”

  “I know what they call you now. Olivia. It doesn’t suit you at all. You should go back to using your real name. Your proper one. Eden.”

  He pulled the chair alongside the bed until it bumped the nightstand. Then he sat and inched it forward, getting closer still. I kept working at the cord. He glanced over, frowning, but said nothing to stop me, just laid the scissors on his lap.

  “For twenty years, people have been looking for you. Some said they’d hidden you too well. But the believers never gave up hope.”

  “I don’t have anything to do with Pamela and Todd Larsen. They’re my birth parents. That’s it. I don’t remember them. I’m sure they barely remember me. If you’re going to use me for revenge—”

  “Revenge?” He laughed. “We don’t want revenge. We want to honor them.”

  “Honor?”

  “What your parents did…” He shuddered. It wasn’t the kind of shudder most people would give thinking about what the Larsens did. It wasn’t the kind of shudder anyone should give thinking about it.

  “They made a statement,” he said. “An incredible statement.”

  Statement? The Larsens killed people. Brutally murdered them. No politics involved. Nothing but death.

  “Angels of death,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “They took what they wanted without a thought for anyone but themselves. And you, of course. That’s all that mattered to them. Their family. Nothing else. They understood what it meant to take a life.”

  No, I was pretty sure they didn’t. No one could destroy other human beings that way and fully comprehend what they were doing. Unless they just didn’t care.

  “You look like her, you know.” He rose from his chair. “Except for the hair. Hers is dark. Maybe if you dyed it…”