“Watch her carefully and bring her back at the first sign of a relapse. And don’t let her get hold of any sausage–or anything else.” The vet turned his back to Noah and closed the door behind him with a solid thump.
Noah stared at the closed door for several seconds before taking Sweet Pea to the front desk, collecting several cans of special diet dog food, and paying the exorbitant bill. He climbed into his truck and settled Sweet Pea on the seat beside him. His sore hand rested lightly on the little dog during the drive home, and he was careful not to make any sudden stops.
Noah tried to coax Sweet Pea to eat a few bites of the new dog food, but her expression clearly said she wasn’t interested. Smelling it, he didn’t blame her. He lifted her dog bed onto the sofa and she dozed next to him for most of the afternoon. He kept one hand on the dog and the other in a bowl of ice. Whenever he got up, she lifted her head and followed him with her eyes.
By evening, she still hadn’t eaten and Noah sat on the floor and held her in his lap. “Come on girl, try a little. You might like it. If you won’t eat, I’ll have to take you back to the vet’s.” He scooped a tiny amount on his finger and put it against her lips. A small, pink tongue took a hesitant lick, and then cleaned his finger. Two more scoops and she started to eat on her own.
He carried her to the backyard where she made a half-hearted circle, checking for intruders, then stood by his leg, waiting to be carried inside.
Although the rule had been ‘no dogs in the bed,’ he always suspected Sweet Pea slept with Betsy when he had to work all night. He’d come home once to find his pillow warm and the dog glaring at him. He’d been secretly glad that Betsy had a warm body to keep her company when he was gone.
What an ass he’d been. Was he jealous of a little dog because she’d known Betsy longer than he had? It wasn’t like the dog took up that much room. No wonder Pea resented him. He’d kicked her out of her own bed.
In those first months after Betsy died, if he’d taken Pea into bed with him, they could have comforted each other. Maybe they’d both be stronger for it now. Instead, they shared the house in silent resentment—each sure the other had stolen some of the love that belonged to them alone.
His bones ached, and he headed for the bedroom before the news was over. He bunched the spread into a nest and settled Sweet Pea into it before dropping his clothes and stretching out on top of the sheet. One hand encircled the little dog, as it had most of the day, and he felt her lick his arm before he fell asleep.
The driver circled the block several times before parking one street past the cop’s house. Not a light was on anywhere in the neighborhood. Of course not, they rolled up the sidewalk by ten on weeknights and by eleven on weekends. At—he checked his watch—half past two, it might as well be a graveyard. The thought made him chuckle.
Don’t get cocky. That’s how fools are caught. He stayed in the shadows as he approached the cop’s house, too excited to care about the cold air. The side garage door opened easily and he switched on his headlamp as he tugged it closed behind him.
There was the cop’s truck, waiting for him. He pulled out the pink key ring and slid the key marked ‘Ford’ into the ignition. A perfect fit. He turned it to accessory and watched the gas needle move to a fraction below the full mark. He patted the steering wheel. Good cop. I knew I could count on you to keep your tank full in case you got called out on an emergency.
No time for self-congratulations. Best to get in and get out before someone woke up, even if it did mean leaving without a memento. In this neighborhood, some old fart would need to pee, or a baby would want his mother’s tit.
Although he could come back after and clean out the cop’s wallet. No, the risk/ratio wasn’t worth it. The cop was unlikely to have much cash. He hated to do a job for free, but working alone again after so long was enough of a thrill.
The gemstone bracelet he’d picked up on his first visit would have to satisfy him. Even if he did have to give it to his mother.
The two hoses were still in the same spot and he began unrolling them. He fastened the ends together and pulled the larger one to the rear of the truck. He jammed the end as far into the tailpipe as he could manage and held it in place with a rag he found on the workbench, plugging the extra material around the opening.
The folding stairs lowered without a sound. He’d oiled them on his last visit. The wind outside was kicking up and he tied a bandana over his nose and mouth in case dust was stirring in the attic. He didn’t want to cough or sneeze at the wrong time. Another example of a superior intellect planning ahead, considering all possibilities.
Now for the hard part. Dragging the hose up was difficult, but he carried the roll over his shoulder, unwinding as he went. He already knew the way.
A poorly connected vent had allowed him to watch Kenny’s parents, rutting vigorously in the same bedroom. Seeing Mr. Yates’ fat ass bouncing and Mrs. Yates with her legs spread and her boobs jiggling had been both disgusting and intriguing, but he didn’t look away. After several minutes, Mr. Yates had rolled to the side, hissed angry sounding words to his wife, and she finished the job with her mouth.
The driver had stared in disbelief. At thirteen, he hadn’t realized such an act existed. Pressure built in his jeans and he experienced his first erection. Over the next year, he checked in on the Yates from time to time. Saturday night seemed to be their preferred time, and he was often waiting.
While there was never any outright violence, the act was always rough and demeaning, without the expressions of love he’d read about in magazines. Mr. Yates tugged and twisted and pinched his wife until she cried out. He bent her over the bed and entered her from behind, entangling his hand in her hair and pulling her head back.
The driver would hurry home, his pants bulging, and relieve himself in private, remembering every detail.
Now the act of killing had the same effect. Planning, he considered foreplay. The instant he was sure the mark was dead, he rushed back to his room, locked the door, and unzipped his pants. Each job gave him hours of pleasure. And this one would be the best. He would savor every moment, over and over again.
The streetlight on the corner bathed the room in a soft glow. He could see the cop asleep on his half of the bed. He knew the man was big, but hadn’t considered what that actually meant. His arms, shoulders, and chest were perfectly sculptured. But it was his legs that caught the driver’s attention. Strong and muscular, disappearing into his boxers just as things got interesting.
He wasn’t gay, certainly not. But he didn’t have time for the distraction of women at this point in his life. Maybe in five or six years. Besides, the women he was around now seldom flaunted their assets, concentrating on intellectual abilities. When he was ready, he’d find a wife with both Playboy looks and a Mensa mind. He deserved nothing less.
The temperature in the attic was only slightly above the outside air, and his hands were beginning to go numb. Time to get moving. He positioned the hose carefully and used the rest of the rag he’d found in the garage to ensure that the fumes went into the bedroom instead of the attic.
The cop sighed and shifted slightly. No, he was wrong, that chest was riveting, and the thin line of dark hair that disappeared under the waistband of his boxers drew his eyes. It wasn’t the man that aroused him. Anyone could admire the beauty of a painting without wanting to buy it and take it home. It was only the thought of all that power brought down by someone as small and weak as himself, using only his superior intellect.
His erection was so strong, it was painful. Do I dare stay here and let myself go while I watch him die? He stifled a chuckle. Coming while he’s going, that’s rich.
A strange sound caught his ear and he peered down into the shadowy room. A small head popped up from under the covers and looked around.
That fucking dog.
How had she managed to live after eating all those sleeping pills? He watched as the dog pulled its head back under the covers. As he sat ba
ck, a small shadow on the cop’s chest caught his eye. Something was there, on his left peck. A small line, too faint to distinguish in the dim light. Was it a scar? Had he been shot, or maybe knifed?
The thought was titillating. He ached to know what it was. He adjusted his glasses, but the line remained a faint blur.
He eased out of the attic. Stick to the plan. Don’t dilly-dally around just for the extra kick. He could hack into the autopsy report to find out. Until then, there was enough pleasure from bringing down that nosy cop all on his own. What a waste. All those muscles, that beautiful body, and what good had it done him? A few minutes of breathing exhaust fumes would shut him down the same way it would a man half his size and condition.
The driver started the big truck and waited to be certain most of the gas was traveling up the hose.
Outside, the sleet had started again and it stung his face as he hugged the shadows on the way back to his car. As his puny compact sputtered to life, he could still feel the power of the cop’s big truck, and imagine all the exhaust that super-sized engine would produce. His heater struggled against the cold, but he felt warm, envisioning the gas, making its way from that truck, curving through the attic until, slowly but surely, it reached the air vent.
He could picture it drifting silently into that room, blanketing both the man and the dog in poisonous vapors.
Two for one. Even better than he’d planned.
Sweet Pea whined and Noah rolled over and wrapped his arm around her. He buried his face in the extra pillow, but it had lost its scent. Time to dab a few drops of perfume on it again. Sleet peppered the window and an ice coated limb cracked like a rifle shot and fell to the ground, causing Sweat Pea to tremble.
“That’s okay, old girl,” Noah’s voice cracked and he tried again. “It’s just Old Man Winter singing his song. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”
His throat hurt so that the words were almost unrecognizable. His head pounded like a jackhammer. Fuck, I knew I’d end up sick. Going from an overheated room, outside into the cold, and back again. My feet wet for two days. Witnesses sneezing on me. Wallowing in garbage.
“We’ll spend the day resting tomorrow. How’s that sound, Pea?”
The words burned and he started coughing. His nose and eyes felt gritty. He sat on the edge of the bed, but the room started spinning.
Trailing his hand on the dresser for support, he made his way to the bathroom, opened the door, and closed it behind him. That habit had stayed with him from Before. He’d always left the light on in the bathroom but kept the door closed so that he wouldn’t disturb Betsy if he came in late or got called out early.
Inside, he fumbled in the cabinet for the bottle of aspirin, shook out three and washed them down with cold water from the faucet. The water felt so soothing sliding down his throat that he took several more gulps. When he straightened up, his head still hurt and the room still spun, but not as much as before.
One step inside the bedroom and he was coughing again. His nose burned and his eyes watered. He tried to make sense of it, but his head wouldn’t work. Something was wrong, he knew that.
He took a step, then two, before he stumbled. He fell to his knees beside the bed. His legs wouldn’t obey his instructions and he hung onto the sheet while the room whirled about him. His eyes were level with the edge of the mattress, where was Sweet Pea? He’d thrown the sheet back when he got out of bed. He pulled it toward him and saw her, buried under the blanket. She didn’t move and her head lay in a small pool of vomit.
Anger swept over him. He didn’t mind going, but it should be his choice of when and where. Even if it was his time, it wasn’t Sweet Pea’s. She deserved better.
A giant roar filled his body and he opened his mouth, but only a squeak came out. He heaved himself to his feet and swept the Yorkie into his arms. He ran through waist-deep molasses toward the kitchen and threw open the back door.
At the first step, his bare foot hit a sheet of ice and he landed on his butt, sleet pelting him from all directions. He sat on the icy stoop, wearing only his boxers, and tried to blow into the little dog’s mouth, but air wouldn’t come. After several painful gasps filled his tortured lungs, he tried again and was able to blow a steady stream of air into Sweat Pea’s snout. He rubbed her chest and did it again.
“Come on, come on, Pea. You can do it. Breathe for me.” He blew again and she gagged, a thin trail of vomit trickling from the corner of her mouth.
“That’s my girl. I knew you wouldn’t leave me.” Did the blanket he accidently threw over her head save her?
Each breath of the freezing air helped brush the cobwebs from his mind. His head still pounded, but the spinning had stopped. Sweet Pea shivered and he knew he had to get her someplace warm. But where? They couldn’t go in the house. It was full of gas.
Gas? What the fuck? His kitchen was electric. Maybe the hot water heater. Or the central heat. He’d turned it up before bed to keep Sweet Pea warm.
Melting ice had soaked through the seat of his boxers and sleet continued to assault him, hitting bare skin like icy buckshot. The garage. But if the house blew up, so would the garage. Okay, make a plan.
Through the house and into the garage as fast as possible. Leave the doors open for fresh air. Once in the garage, put Sweet Pea in the truck, go back inside and open windows. Figure out what’s leaking gas and turn it off.
He felt better as soon as he had a plan, a course of action. He stood, but his legs hadn’t gotten the message. They trembled so that he grabbed the door for support. One step into the kitchen and he started coughing. His lungs burned and tears poured from his eyes.
Too fucking bad.
He clutched Sweet Pea to his chest like a football and ran through the kitchen. This time, the molasses was only up to his ankles.
In the garage, he hit the button to raise the door, opened the truck and climbed in. The towel he’d wrapped Sweet Pea in was still there and he settled the dog carefully. Wonderful, blessed warmth. His body was still shaking. Why was the truck so warm, was it still running? Had he forgotten to turn it off when he came home from the vet?
No, the gas gauge said almost full. It hadn’t been running long. He reached for the ignition to turn the truck off and his hand closed on something that was familiar and foreign at the same time. His heart stopped and he opened his hand to reveal a pink, glittery key fob.
He shook his head to clear it and something caught his eye. The attic stairs were pulled down. How did that happen? His eyes followed the hose as it snaked its way up the folding stairs. Had he been dreaming, sleepwalking? Had he done this himself?
It was exactly his plan, what he’d been thinking of doing. But the timing was wrong.
A few weeks after the funeral, his sister, Rachelle, had taken him aside. “Did you read the book on grieving I gave you?”
He’d never been a good liar and didn’t have the strength to try. “No. I can’t sit still long enough to read.”
“That’s okay, read it when you’re up to it. But until then, there’s one important piece of advice to remember. Don’t make any major decisions for at least a year.”
And he’d agreed. Promised, even. Of course, she’d been talking about quitting his job or moving away.
The one year anniversary would be tough. So he’d decided on fourteen months. He had the date, October 25th, marked on his calendar. And he’d need every one of those days to atone for the sins of his past if he had any hope of joining Betsy in Heaven.
A Sunday School teacher had once cautioned him that for every sin you committed, you must redeem yourself not seven times, but seven times seven. He’d wasted the first few months moping, but now he was in full swing, and he needed to make his city safer for his sister and her two girls by taking forty-nine miscreants off the streets of Houston. And he still had thirty-four left to put away.
But this was February. He had eight months to go. And somebody was fucking with him.
Conner was dream
ing of a warm beach. He could even smell the salt air. Jeannie was wearing a bikini. That pink one. The one that always drove him wild. She looked at him and smiled. He was about to get lucky. And with Jeannie, that meant very lucky.
At first, the buzzing of his cell phone was a breeze through the palm trees, then it turned into an angry swarm of bees. He answered without bothering to glance at the number. “This better be good. We’re not on call this weekend.”
“I need you here. Now.” Noah’s voice sounded rough, raw.
“Lights and siren?”
“Only on the freeway, not in my neighborhood.”
Even on his weekend off, Conner had his clothes laid out and ready to go. In two minutes, he was dressed. Before leaving, he leaned over to kiss Jeannie on the cheek and whispered, “Emergency. I have to go.”
She nodded without opening her eyes. As he stood, she grabbed his hand. “I love you. Be careful.”
“Always,” he said. “And me too.” He allowed one hand to linger on the swell that would soon be his daughter. A small kick told him she was awake. “And good night to you too, kiddo. Be still and let your mother sleep.”
Even with icy streets, he pulled in front of Noah’s house in fifteen minutes. All the lights were on and the garage door was up.
Noah stood in the driveway, waiting. Conner parked the car and stepped onto frozen grass that crunched under his feet.
“I need to use your car.” Noah met him halfway across the yard. “I have to take Sweet Pea to the vet.”
Conner noticed the bundle in his arms for the first time. He leaned to the side to look into Noah’s garage. “For this you called me at four in the morning?” Something was up. Something more than a sick dog. He stalled while he tried to figure it out. “Your truck not working?”
“The truck’s running fine. Too good in fact. I thought it best not to disturb anything. You giving me your keys or what?”
“They’re in the ignition. Want me to drive? You don’t look too good.” Noah’s hair was disheveled, his eyes red, and his voice sounded like old sandpaper. He was wearing jeans, no belt, a stained sweatshirt, and . . . flip flops? Noah gave him grief for noticing things like that, but it was surprising what you could learn about the person you were dealing with by being observant.
Winter Song (Seasons Pass Book 1) Page 10