by Julie Miller
“Liza.” Her mother’s voice. Gentle. Calming. Something to cling to when she was afraid.
“Mom?”
Liza felt a jarring touch on her hand and snatched it away. “Your mother’s not there, Liza. Stay with me. Stay in the alley. Tell me what you see.”
“Stay away, sweetie. It isn’t safe.”
“Mom? I have to help. I want to help.”
“Damn it. I’ve lost her.” Trent Jameson wasn’t talking to her anymore. He used a sharper, clipped tone to speak into his tape recorder. “Subject is reverting back to earlier memory. May look into drug trials to keep her in relaxed, focused state.”
“Dr. Jameson?” She called to him, reaching for a steadying hand to guide her through the chaos in her head.
“Relax.” The sonorous monotone had returned. “Go back to the quiet place. Tell me who is getting in the car, Liza.”
But in her mind, the car was gone. The foggy windows and faceless figures inside had gone with it.
New images were battering her now. She was inside the warehouse, kneeling beside the dead body, watching the pool of blood expand beneath the man’s head. “He’s dead.”
“Go back to the car, Liza.”
“Stay back, sweetie. It isn’t safe.”
“I need you. Good night, Parrish.” Holden Kincaid’s strong arms and soothing voice dissipated almost as soon as they appeared.
Then she was reaching down to feel John Kincaid’s pulse. His skin was cold and clammy and still. Tears burned in her eyes at the cruelty of his death. His face was so familiar. But the square jaw was discolored. Broken. “I want to help you,” she cried. “I’m trying.”
“Liza. I need you to go back to the men in the car.”
“Stay away. It isn’t safe.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, Mom. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to keep you and Dad safe.”
“Liza—”
“It isn’t safe.”
“I need you.”
“I have to help. I have to remember.”
“Yes. Remember. Tell me about—”
The dead man grabbed her hand. “Remember!”
Liza screamed herself fully awake. She tore off her mask and sat up, wincing as even the dim light from candles and behind drawn shades seared her sensitive eyes. Her head ached, and she felt disoriented.
Feeling like an abject failure because her mind refused to cooperate, she picked up the pillow that had rolled to the floor and set it back on the couch in an apologetic need to straighten out the literal and figurative mess she had made. “I’m sorry.”
Dr. Jameson didn’t look up from his notes for several moments. When he did, his rueful smile made him appear gravely disappointed—or maybe that was pity. “Headache?”
Liza massaged her temples, feeling sick to her stomach, from the intense pain. “Nasty one.”
“I told you to let me wake you up slowly. The jump from a hypnotic state to waking consciousness is too abrupt.”
That was more fatherly rebuke than sympathetic support. “But it’s so frightening. So frustrating.” Liza stopped the massage that wasn’t helping anyway. “Did I remember anything new?”
“You confirmed the make of the car you saw that night. A Buick. But then you skipped to discovering the body. And you revisited your parents’ murders again.”
“I heard my mother’s voice. She told me to ‘stay away.’ From the gruesome sight of John Kincaid’s body, I guess.” Not that the warning had worked. Why couldn’t she forget that most heartbreaking part of the crime she’d witnessed?
Even though she’d like to talk a little more, her session time was apparently over. Dr. Jameson was checking the calendar on his phone. “I’m more convinced than ever that the memories are there. That you did see something significant that night, but that you’re blocking it. When I asked about the license plate, you mentioned a door closing.”
“The car door?”
“The door blocking that memory. And the memory of what the men inside the car looked like. I believe we’re on the brink of discovery—of breaking this wide open.” She wished his optimism was contagious. “I want to review the transcript from this session, organize my thoughts, then try this again tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
He punched in numbers with his stylus. “Are you free?”
She had school, had a job, had a life. But mostly, she needed time to regroup from this raw, vulnerable feeling. “I was hoping to have a few days off to relax. This is scary for me. I mean, I want to know, but then, I’m afraid to know.”
“I can cancel my lunch appointment if that’s the only time you’re free.”
This was the place for therapy, not sympathy, apparently. “I can’t take a break?”
“I don’t want you to regress any. We are right on the edge of a breakthrough. I can feel it.”
She wished she could. “I really think I need the time to—”
“I know your nightmares torment you, Liza. And you believe that if you could just remember everything the police want you to that you could put it out of your mind.” It was a cruel reminder, but the doctor softened it by pulling her to her feet and wrapping an arm around her shoulders as he walked her toward his office door. “It’s the searching for answers, for closure, that keeps the nightmares coming back. You know I’m your best chance at unlocking those hidden places inside your head. The longer you delay, the longer the nightmares will continue. Do you want that?”
“Of course not.” Feeling uncharacteristically drained of fight, Liza grabbed her backpack. “Between my morning seminar and work at the clinic tomorrow afternoon, I’ll stop by.”
“I’ll see you at noon?”
“Sure.” He opened the door for her and she headed out, feeling a little jittery—like she’d been up studying all night for exams and was subsisting on caffeine rather than sleep. “Dr. Jameson? Be honest. Am I getting any better? Do you think I’ll ever remember everything?”
“Hypnosis isn’t an exact science, dear. But we’re making such good progress, I’m hopeful that yes, we’ll eventually unlock all of those memories inside your head.” He stopped at the outer door and finally gave her the reassurance of an indulgent smile. “At the very least, I promise that I’ll make the nightmares go away.”
Liza appreciated the sentiment. But as she walked to the elevators at the end of the hall, she could only think of one thing. She didn’t have to be asleep to be haunted by nightmares. And until she could remember who’d killed John Kincaid, she doubted Dr. Jameson’s claim was a promise he could keep.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WEIRD things are happening?” Liza held the bull terrier still on top of the clinic’s metal examination table while her friend, vet tech Anita Logan, swabbed a medicated ointment over the dog’s skin rash.
“That’s it, Marvin. Good boy.” Anita praised the dog for his calm behavior. Already a good-natured animal, he seemed grateful for the soothing relief that a bath, tests and medicine had given him. As Anita stooped down to tend to a patch on the dog’s belly, she continued. “I’m just sayin’. Lots of unusual things have been happenin’ to the people who work here. My granny would say we’re under a bad star.”
Liza frowned. “Define ‘lots.’”
“All done.” Anita pulled a pen from her lab coat pocket and jotted the name and application time on the dog’s chart. “Well, there was you and that crazy SUV driver you told me about. Dr. Friedman said someone egged her car last night. Then, this morning, Reynaldo came in and said somebody had vandalized his mailbox last night—shot it all up. He and his family were all at Wednesday church services, so no one was hurt. But still…”
“That’s a relief no one was injured.” Liza set Marvin on the floor, looped a lead around his neck and headed for the kennel area in the back room.
“And this morning…” Anita pitched her trash and followed, waiting until they were alone in the back to finish. “This morning, I could swear this guy was following me.”
Liza opened one of the lower cages and put Marvin inside before removing the lead and closing the cage door. “Didn’t you take the bus?”
“You know I did. I can’t afford parking and gas these days.” Anita was playing with the black lab mix in the cage next to Marvin’s. The flawless caramel skin at her forehead was creased with a frown. “That’s just it. I saw this man on the bus—somebody new, not from the neighborhood. I caught him staring at me more than once.”
“Maybe he was hitting on you.”
“If he was, he’s not my type. He was a big brother. Shaved head, goatee.”
The man sitting behind the wheel of that SUV last night had been big. But no, what kind of connection could there be between Anita’s story and Scary Man with the headlights? Liza managed to keep the frisson of foreboding that crawled through her veins out of her voice. “That doesn’t sound too bad. Did he say something crude? Was he wearing a wedding ring?”
Anita pulled her fingers away from the dog and shook her head. “I didn’t want to look that close. He just stared. Never said a word, never smiled. It creeped me out. Especially when he got off at the same stop.”
“He followed you to the clinic? He didn’t try to accost you, did he?”
“No. He came right up behind me, like he wanted to try something, but he walked on past. And Liza, girl—this is the really weird part—when I went to Snow’s Barbecue for lunch, I swear I saw him standing across the street, watching me again.”
“You’re sure it was the same man?”
Anita’s dramatic shiver rippled from head to toe. “Girl, you don’t forget that kind of scary. It was him.”
Liza’s life had grown disturbing enough over the past six months without hearing that her friends were being victimized as well. She reached out to rub a supportive hand up and down Anita’s arm. “Do you think you need to call the police?”
Anita snorted. “And tell them what?”
Detective Grove had asked plenty of questions about what she’d seen at that warehouse, so Liza knew the routine. “Give them a description. Tell them where he got on the bus and where he got off. That you saw him again at the restaurant. Tell them he scared you.”
“They don’t arrest a man for lookin’ tough.”
“No, but if his description fits some other crime—or if they can link him to the same kind of report from other women—KCPD would want to know that.”
Holden Kincaid, Kevin Grove and the rest of KCPD would love to have such a detailed description about a possible suspect. They’d be more pleased with the accuracy of Anita’s description and would probably have more patience with her than they did with Liza’s vague report.
A little bit of the headache that had throbbed for an hour after leaving her lunchtime session with Dr. Jameson began to rap at her temples.
“You all right, girl?” Anita’s concern startled Liza, and she wondered how long she’d stood there, trapped inside her own thoughts.
Liza combed her fingers through her hair, mussing up the copper fringe and buying herself a moment to summon a reassuring smile. “I’ve just got a bit of a headache, I guess. Probably another manifestation of your granny’s ‘bad star.’”
“Maybe.” Anita accepted the excuse, even if her light brown eyes showed that she didn’t believe it. She opened the door to the main room and pointed toward the reception area. “Linda keeps some ibuprofen in her desk. Why don’t you take a couple and find an empty room to lie down in for a few minutes. I know you’re burning the candle at both ends.”
Liza eyed the stack of treatment charts on the counter that Dr. Friedman had asked her to review. “I’ve got work to do.”
Anita took her by the shoulders and nudged her toward the front desk. “Granny may be superstitious, but I’m not. I’m tired of all this craziness, but a headache I can deal with. Now go take care of yourself. We can manage without you for ten minutes back here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Go.”
Smiling her thanks, Liza wove her way through the examination tables and lab counters to the front room. Liza spotted their receptionist, Linda, through the front windows, huddled in her jacket and smoking a cigarette with one of their community volunteers. Trading a wave to let the receptionist know she’d was borrowing her desk for a few minutes, Liza sat behind the counter and opened the desk’s main drawer. “Let’s see. Ibuprofen, ibuprofen…”
As she rummaged her way through the drawer, the telephone rang. Linda was still in the middle of an animated conversation outside, so before the phone ended its second ring, Liza picked it up and answered. “Friedman Animal Clinic.”
“Get out of the building.”
The voice was so low that Liza questioned whether she had heard right. “Excuse me?”
“Get out of the building.”
An icy finger touched the nape of her neck and pricked goose bumps across her skin beneath her sweater and lab coat. “Who is this?”
“Get out.”
“Why?”
“There’s a bomb.”
HOLDEN LIFTED HIS FATHER’S ten-speed bicycle off the ceiling hooks in the garage and handed it down the ladder to Bill Caldwell. “Got it?”
“I’ve got it.”
The tires were flat and the rubber around the rims sticky from years of disuse. Still, they handled the old bike as reverently as a newborn baby—because it had been John’s.
“Where do you want it, Su?” Bill asked, squeezing between Holden’s mother and a stack of boxes she’d packed with some of her late husband’s clothes. “With the boxes you’re donating to the church for their Christmas bazaar? Or in the back of my truck to go to the city mission?”
Susan tucked a sable-colored strand of hair back into her ponytail and pointed to the corner of the garage. “There’ll be some child who wants a bike for Christmas, and after the men’s group fixes it up, it’ll make a perfect gift.”
Holden looked down from his perch and watched Bill dip his head to kiss Susan. “Spoken like a true mother. John would be pleased to see a little boy putting this bike to good use again.”
“I think so, too.”
Interesting. Was his mother blushing? Bill Caldwell seemed to be stealing several pecks on the cheek or lips lately. More than he’d done when Holden’s father was still alive. It wasn’t uncommon for Caldwell to greet Susan with a kiss. After all, John Kincaid had often given a friendly hug or kiss to Bill’s late wife, Erin, when they met. But now there was something subtly different about their interaction that made Holden want to trade places with Bill and put a little hands-off distance between the two sixty-year-olds.
Not that he begrudged his parents’ generation the right to be attracted to someone. His mother and Bill had a lot in common beyond their ties to Holden’s father. Susan Kincaid was a smart, loving, beautiful woman, and Bill Caldwell—with those distinguished silver sideburns and a multinational technology business that he’d built from the ground up—was probably a pretty good catch himself. If their friendship evolved into something more, Holden couldn’t stop it.
He just didn’t have to like how quickly the new relationship seemed to be progressing. How could they move on to something new when his father’s murder hadn’t even been solved yet?
He shook off the uncharitable feelings and turned to straighten a box of books. “What are you, eight or twenty-eight?” he chided himself. Bill and his mother had both lost their very best friend. Who was he to fault them for being drawn together now that they were both alone?
He hoped when he was older he would have the right woman by his side to keep things interesting.
Hmm. Did copper-red hair turn gray, silver or white when it aged?
“Oh hell.” Holden nearly tipped the ladder as that random thought caught him by surprise. He thought he’d put Liza Parrish firmly out of his mind. Maybe he’d better climb down before he hurt himself.
While Holden descended and put away the ladder, he discovered that his thoughts
would go where they wanted to go. Back to Liza.
This afternoon’s irritability probably had something to do with the sweet, round bottom that had tumbled into his lap last night. Dogs and bruises aside, he’d been very much aware of curves and warmth, and the way the moonlight reflected in her silvery eyes and made them sparkle. Her lips were a natural shade of peach, adorned with nothing but lip balm. They moved with a fascinating agility when she argued, which was often. And despite his nobler instincts, he’d wondered if her lips would be equally agile if silenced with a kiss.
Beyond the unexpected sexual attraction he felt toward KCPD’s prime witness, he’d been thrown even further off his game twenty minutes later when he’d gotten a glimpse of the frightened, vulnerable woman lurking beneath that tough-chick facade. Liza Parrish had no problem standing up and fighting for herself, but once the adrenaline of fear and bravado had worn off, she’d collapsed into his arms and clung to his hand like a woman who needed him. That unspoken request had tapped into something far deeper inside him than the simmering mix of frustration and desire that had kept him awake late into the morning hours.
He’d finally been able to fall asleep. But then he’d been plagued by a variety of erotic dreams that involved rolling around on the ground, heated kisses and finding out whether those freckles that dusted her cheeks covered the rest of her body as well.
Yeah, right. He had no business judging his mother’s taste in a new partner, when he seemed to have made an unplanned and ill-advised choice himself. Liza Parrish was forbidden fruit. He couldn’t afford to be tempted. Finding the truth about his father’s murder—finding peace—might depend on his ability to keep his distance from her.
“Do you need me to move anything else for you, Mom?” Susan Kincaid had invited him to stop by when she was done teaching her high-school English classes. Beyond the opportunity to check on her, which he and his brothers did frequently, Holden had willingly agreed to trade a little muscle for one of her home-cooked meals. “If not, maybe I can get some of those leaves raked up in the yard before dinner.”