by Gayle Wilson
She was going to have to learn to say no to additional appointments at the end of an already full day. It wasn’t good for her or for the client.
Tonight she had felt her patience unraveling as John Nolan droned on and on about not being able to please his mother. Normally that kind of thing wouldn’t have bothered her, but she’d had to fight the urge to tell him to get a grip.
Maybe that’s what she should have done, she thought as she fumbled in her bag to retrieve her keys. She had already punched the unlock command before she looked up.
The driver’s side of the dark blue Accord was directly in front of her. In the accumulation of road splatter from the last few rainy days, someone had written “Help me” on its side.
The H began on the left side of the door, the other letters tracking neatly across its length. She stopped, reading the words twice to make sure they said what she thought they did.
Help me? Why would someone write “Help me” on her car?
She glanced at the three remaining automobiles on this level. None of them bore a similar message.
Some kind of prank? Except this was a monitored area, used only by the staff. And they gained access to it with a card.
She was sure the words hadn’t been there this morning. Given their position, she would definitely have noticed.
“Something wrong?”
She turned to find Gary Evers, one of the other psychologists on staff, watching her. She shook her head, embarrassed to admit she’d been stopped in her tracks by some words scrawled in the road dirt on the side of her car.
“Just trying to figure out who’s been leaving me messages,” she said, nodding toward the Honda.
Gary looked at the door and then back at her. “Help me? The tradition where I come from is ‘wash me.’”
Jenna tried to remember where Gary was from, but all she knew was that it wasn’t anywhere in the South. Of course, the tradition here was the same as the one he’d quoted.
“That would make more sense.”
“Maybe it’s a message from someone who feels he can’t afford your services.” Gary’s smile invited her to share his amusement.
For some reason, she couldn’t see the humor in the situation. Maybe it was the result of the long hours she’d put in today. Or—more likely—the result of everything that had happened during the last three. Of second-guessing her own actions and reactions. Just as she was now.
Was this a staff member’s idea of a joke because she’d come across as sympathetic to the killer? Or had it been written in anger by someone else, someone who had taken her research-based explanation about the forces that created such a monster as a defense of his actions.
Someone like Sean Murphy?
However the words had been meant, she could find nothing the least bit amusing about them. “I don’t think that’s the proper avenue for someone seeking pro bono therapy. Or for a co-worker having a laugh at my expense.”
“You think someone here did that?” Gary’s eyes again touched on the scrawl.
“It is a secure lot.”
“Yeah, but…” Realizing she’d been serious, Gary shook his head. His smile had been replaced by a slightly quizzical expression. “You want me to wipe it off?”
Realizing that she was making herself ridiculous, Jenna forced a smile. “I have to get the car washed, anyway. Maybe that was the intent.”
“To get you to wash your car?” His tone had lightened in response to hers. “Think Paul’s been out here nosing around?”
Although Carlisle was a stickler for having the staff present their best faces to the world at all times, the thought of him prowling the parking deck looking for dirty cars was also ridiculous. Pointing that out was obviously Gary’s intent.
“If not Paul, then somebody,” she said. “I get the message.”
Gary laughed. “I’ll let you know tomorrow if I’ve got a similar inscription on mine. You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Just tired. I’m going home to a long, hot bath and a tall drink.” Something that was getting to be a habit. “I have no idea why this…” She stopped, refusing to admit how much the writing had bothered her.
“Everybody’s on edge right now. With good reason. God, you weren’t thinking—” He stopped, realizing that was exactly what she’d been thinking. “Look, this is somebody’s idea of a joke. A stupid one, granted, but…You can’t really think he did this.”
“I think maybe someone who was angered or annoyed by what I said in the interview decided to mock what I do.”
“Why would anyone have been angered by your interview?”
“Did you hear it?”
“Just the part about the killer.”
The clip they’d played over and over. The one without her take on holiday depression.
“Did you think I came across as sympathetic?”
“You came across as a professional discussing someone who’s obviously mentally ill. And doing it in a reasoned manner.”
“And if you weren’t a psychologist? How would it have come across to you then?”
His hesitation was slight, but it was enough. “Look, I don’t—”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Jenna said, her words strained and flat. “Thanks for trying, though.”
“You can’t let yourself be held hostage to the morons of the world. If you do, then they win. You said nothing wrong, Jenna. Believe me, nobody here thinks so.”
That at least sounded genuine. It didn’t explain the writing on her car, but it did make her feel marginally better about who might have put it there.
“You want me to follow you home?” Gary asked.
“I appreciate the offer, but I have a couple of things to pick up on the way. I’ll be fine. Really.”
“Everybody’s feeling the pressure. I honestly don’t mind following you, even on your round of errands. We could stop and grab a bite to eat. Or get a head start on that drink you mentioned.”
She was a little surprised by the offer. Although Gary had been a member of the practice for well over a year, she’d gotten no vibes that he found her attractive.
Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was being kind because it was obvious she’d been upset by the message. She was reading more into the gesture than it warranted.
“That’s really very sweet, but…maybe I can get a rain check. Some night when we haven’t both been working late.”
“You got it.”
Jenna couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed. As he made the agreement, he’d stepped forward, reaching for the door handle of the Honda.
She realized that she hadn’t punched the remote. The accompanying beep when she did echoed through the nearly empty deck, just as her footsteps had.
Gary opened her door, and she slipped into the seat, using the excuse of fastening her seat belt to delay looking up at him. When she did, he was peering down into the car, his lips slightly pursed.
“Lock your doors.”
“You think—”
“I think I’d tell any woman in this city the same thing right now. Better safe than sorry.”
Unsure how to respond, she nodded. “I will.”
“Be careful,” he added, closing the door. He put the tips of the fingers of his right hand against the glass for a moment before he straightened, allowing her room to back out.
She inserted the key and started the engine. Then she looked out through the window to smile at him again. Before she put the car into Reverse, she lifted her hand and waved.
He didn’t return the gesture, but he stood watching as she headed toward the exit. When she looked back, just before she began the descent to the lower level, he was still standing in the same spot. And he was still watching her.
Six
Sean came awake with a start, neck muscles straining as his head jerked up off the pillow. His breath rasped in and out of his lungs as if he’d run a race.
He had. One he’d lost a long time ago. One at which he
would never get a second chance.
Not unless you counted this.
He stretched his eyes wide in an attempt to wipe away the last of the dream. The motel-beige walls and plastic-backed floral draperies, which he had pulled across the window in order to sleep, helped to orient him.
He remembered where he was. And he knew why he was here.
The nightmare he’d just had was the same one he’d experienced over and over in the years since Makaela’s disappearance. Although he was painfully aware of how his sister had died, the dream never played out to that end. He always awoke before it could, his body drenched in sweat and his heart beating as if it would tear its way out of his chest. Today had been no different.
He closed his eyes again, waiting for the pump of blood to slow. He hadn’t experienced the terror of the dream in a long time, but he knew he shouldn’t be surprised it had happened now.
He was closer to Makaela’s murderer than he’d ever been before. He knew that with a certainty for which he could offer no rational explanation. He simply knew it.
Just as he had known outside Jenna Kincaid’s office two nights ago that the man he sought was also there. So near he could feel his evil. Could sense it in the air around him.
This was a smaller city than the ones the killer had chosen before. A limited population spread over a relatively contained geographic area, bound by the narrow valley that ran between the two mountain ridges in which the original settlement had been made.
Not only was the hunting ground here more contained, thanks to the friend Sean had made on the FBI task force, he’d gotten in on this spurt of homicides early. While the bastard was feeling invincible. Maybe this time…
Feeling his expectations rise to a level experience had taught him was premature, Sean released a slow breath, deliberately focusing on his plans for today. One step at a time. He had learned long ago that was the best way to keep the images from the dream, as well as those that represented the fulfillment of his quest, out of his consciousness.
After a moment, he held his wrist up so that despite the artificially darkened room, he could see the hands of his watch. It was 3:30 p.m. Which meant he would have time to shower and shave and maybe get something to eat before Jenna Kincaid left the office.
It would all get easier once he’d completed his move into the vacant unit in the building below hers, which might take place as early as tomorrow. The apartment he’d chosen wasn’t directly across from hers, but it did have a view of both the front entrance and the expanse of glass in Jenna’s living room.
He could only imagine how she would react when she discovered he was there. As much as he’d like to, there was probably no way to prevent her from finding out, which would almost certainly mean a confrontation with the local cops.
He wasn’t overly concerned about that. He had his own resources within the law enforcement community, people who would be willing to speak to the locals on his behalf.
And he wasn’t breaking any laws. Not by moving into an empty apartment. Nor would he be by sitting outside in the parking lot.
From now on, he was going to keep a very low profile. The only way he had any chance of finding the man he’d come here to kill was to fade into the background of Jenna Kincaid’s world, so that when the real stalking began, the man he was hunting would never know that he, too, was being stalked.
“Hey, sport. Whatcha doing?”
“Watching Wiggles,” Ryan said.
His nephew’s voice was so soft Sean had to strain to hear the words. If he hadn’t already known the probable answer, he wouldn’t have been able to decipher it.
Sean had long ago learned to keep his feelings about the boy’s choice of TV shows and books to himself. The kid didn’t need criticism, not of any kind. Especially not from him.
His day-care teachers all praised Ryan’s sweet nature and gentle disposition, assuring Sean that his nephew would eventually grow out of his shyness. Of course, none of them knew the kids’ backgrounds. He had figured that the fewer people who knew about Makaela’s murder, the better.
“You have a good day at school?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Not much longer now,” Sean said, allowing his voice to rise teasingly at the end.
“Till Christmas?”
“That’s right. You getting excited?”
“Are you coming home?”
Sean swallowed the lump that hopeful question created. He knew he was their security blanket. Knew and accepted that that was his role. They were his family. And he was theirs. Literally all they had.
The problem was that he had also undertaken another role. One he took just as seriously. One he was far more suited to than playing mama and daddy to a couple of youngsters.
“As soon as I can,” he said, being careful not to make any promises he couldn’t keep.
“Before Christmas?”
“I don’t know, Scout. I hope so.”
“I got you something. Me and Cathy.”
“Yeah?”
“Something good. You’re gonna like it.”
“I know I will.”
“Cathy don’t think we’re getting a puppy, but I asked Santa.” They’d been over the dog thing a dozen times. Ryan had been told over and over again that it wasn’t possible. The lease didn’t allow it. Besides, it was hard enough to get someone good to live in and take care of the kids while he was away. If the job required cleaning up after a non-housebroken animal in the bargain—
“Uncle Sean?”
“I’m here. Look, we talked about the puppy. Maybe next summer. If we can find a house with a fenced-in yard—”
“That’s what she said.”
“Well, she’s right. I explained all that.”
“I still asked Santa. That’s okay, isn’t it?”
Sean closed his eyes, wishing he weren’t several hundred miles away. Wishing he had answers for that kind of question. Wishing most of all that this wasn’t the kind of fucked-up world where somebody could murder a little boy’s mother.
Makaela would have known how to respond to that wishful tone. She would probably have been able to juggle a full-time job and a puppy. When all he seemed able to manage—
“Uncle Sean? You still there?”
“Yeah. It’s okay to ask Santa, Scout, just as long as you’re prepared for him saying no.”
“Like when you pray.”
“What?”
“That’s what Maria says. It’s okay to pray for something, but that don’t mean you’re gonna get it.”
“Doesn’t mean,” Sean corrected.
“Doesn’t mean you’re gonna get it. Santa’s like that, too?”
“Something like that.”
“But sometimes you do.”
Get what you pray for, Sean thought, automatically filling in the missing syntax. “Sometimes.”
“I wish you were home.”
“Me, too.”
“You want to talk to Cathy?”
“Sure. You be good, now. Mind Maria.”
Maria Alvarez had been a godsend. She was older than he’d been looking for, but she had become the grandmother the kids had never had. Despite her references, when he’d first hired her, Sean had thought about setting up one of those home-surveillance cameras. It had quickly become apparent by the way the children responded to her that wouldn’t be necessary.
“Hey, Uncle Sean.”
“Hey, Princess. How are you?”
“Fine. How are you?”
Where Ryan was withdrawn, Cathy was the proverbial chatterbox. She never met a stranger, something that occasionally gave him nightmares, too. Only, her radar seemed pretty good in detecting the good guys from the bad.
The same thing you thought about Makaela.
“Missing you guys. Wishing I was home,” he said aloud. That was the truth. There was no need to prevaricate.
“Maria and I are making a fruitcake.”
Visions of the brick-shaped, perennial butt of ho
liday jokes flashed through his mind. “Yeah? Sounds good.”
“My job is measuring out the fruit.”
As far as Sean was concerned, the word fruit when used in conjunction with fruitcake was a misnomer. The artificially colored bits of red-and-green gunk it usually contained bore no resemblance to the real stuff.
“Your grandma used to make fruitcakes.”
The memory was just suddenly there in his head. Unexpected. And unwanted.
“Really? Cool. Did Mama help?”
“Yeah,” he said, fighting the rush of memories that had accompanied the first. “Yeah, she did.”
That was the problem with allowing any of them in. It opened the door to the rest. The ones he had fully intended never to think about again. Another reason the interview Jenna Kincaid had given had bothered him.
“We’ll save you a piece, but you have to promise that you’ll be home in time for Christmas.”
He swallowed, fighting two sets of emotions. Determined to give in to neither.
“I can’t promise that, Princess. I told you.”
“But you’ll try, won’t you? Ryan really wants you to be here. He needs you to. He’s started all that stuff about wanting a puppy again.”
“I know. He told me. You keep talking to him, okay? Make him understand that…That now just isn’t the best time for something like that.”
“I will. He’s just a baby.”
The gulf between Cathy’s seven-going-on-thirty maturity and Ryan’s immature four-almost-five seemed immeasurably wide. At least it was better than it had been three years ago when family services had handed the kids off to him.
He’d had no idea what to say to a four-year-old who had just lost her mother in the most brutal way imaginable. And no clue in hell what to do with a two-year-old.
That initial panic had, in the intervening years, given way to more normal concerns like whether or not he was providing all the right things for them. Child-care issues. Keeping up with vaccinations and checkups. Just getting them to bed at a reasonable hour sometimes seemed Herculean.