Dead Shot

by Annie Solomon

  “Look, you don’t have to go back there,” he said rapidly, making it a vow. “Ever.”

  But instead of snuggling close, she pulled back, propped her head on her hand and looked at him. “Back where?”

  “To Belle Meade. Your grandmother. I won’t let her hurt you again.”

  She did the oddest thing. She laughed. Traced a finger down his nose. “Oh, Ray.” She sighed. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Just stay close. Let me keep you safe.”

  “That’s sweet. So very sweet. So very Ray. You’re a sweet man, Ray—when you’re not being a pain in the ass—a nice man.”

  He knocked her hand away. “You know what I’ve figured out? When you’re sneering, you care the most.”

  Their gazes locked.

  “Well, you’re a child of the Age of Psychobabble,” she said coolly. “Don’t you know you can run, but you can’t hide? Not if the horror is inside yourself.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Genevra didn’t put those scars on my arms, Ray.”

  “But you said ‘her.’Who else—God, Maddie?”

  She shook her head. “One more wrong guess, and you lose the minicamper and the vacation package.” Her eyes never left his face.

  And he saw it. Right there in the depths of the violet haze. Saw it. Got it. And it cracked his world.

  “Oh, my God.” The rage seeped away, replaced by a sadness so deep he could have drowned in it. “My God.” Tears tightened the back of his throat.

  “Hey—you going to get all weepy on me, do it somewhere else.”

  “Fuck you, Gray.” He swiped at his eyes.

  “Or we could choose that option again.”

  Like a rattlesnake striking, he darted up and over so fast she was on her back and trapped against the bed before she knew he was coming.

  “You fucking did that to yourself? You carved yourself up like a piece of meat?”

  “What if I did?”

  He stared at her with total disbelief. “What if you did? Oh, my God.” Then he pulled her up and into his arms. “My God.” He held her tight, kissed her neck, her cheek, her lips. “Why wasn’t anyone there? Why didn’t anyone take care of you?”

  “It’s all right,” she said, holding him, comforting him, which was ironic, but nice. “It was a long time ago.”

  She remembered other reactions to those scars. Some guys were turned off, some turned on. Some guys couldn’t wait to hear every gory detail. The first time Kenny had seen them, he’d wanted to add a new one. “To remember our first time. We’ll do it together,” he’d said.

  No one had gotten this worked up, though. At least, not for her sake. For the child she’d once been. Or never been. So she let Ray’s concern wash over her without further comment. She sank into the power of his compassion. Felt those strong arms around her like a shield. A wall of safety that no one and nothing could breach.

  He held her tight, kissed her tenderly, and, God help her, she liked it. Liked it a lot. Too much. She could get so used to this. To having him around to keep the monster at bay.

  She pushed at him. “Enough. Stop. You’re suffocating me.”

  He stared at her, long enough for her face to heat and his eyes to chill over. “You seemed to enjoy it just fine a little while ago.”

  “That was then.”

  Abruptly, he let her go. “Fine.” He swung off the bed. “You want your space? Whatever.” Went in search of his clothes. Or his sanity.

  Or hers.

  Alone now, she curled into herself, burrowed beneath the covers. Stared at the scars. The dark triangles where she’d pressed a hot iron into her skin, the crude hunks of slashed flesh that were supposed to be her own initial twined around her mother’s. The twisted H, the awkward

  G. All the other attempts to keep from screaming.

  She’d stopped cutting when she picked up the camera. Learned how to focus her anger and channel it outward. But still, the pall of destiny never left. It was with her now, in this room, when she looked at Ray and saw what he wanted from her.

  Happiness. Hope. Safety.

  Things she never thought about. Never planned for. Never expected.

  Not if she was going to face the black evil still walking free. Still killing. Still coming after her.

  37

  Genevra Gray belted the silk charmeuse robe around her and sat at the little vanity her mother had insisted she have. Macey Holland wanted her daughter to have her own bedroom, too, but as a young bride, Genevra had thought that too old-fashioned. The compromise was her small dressing area with the mirrored vanity.

  She sat there now, more than fifty years after resolving that dispute with her mother, and reached for the Jardin de la Vie hand cream. Genevra had bought her first jar on her honeymoon and used the rose-scented lotion ever since, even when she had to have it shipped directly from Paris.

  She smoothed the cream over her hands. She’d always been proud of her hands, of her long, thin fingers. Now the knuckles stood out, the joints misshapen by arthritis.

  She sighed. She’d been brought up to expect expensive things. Pretty things. The Hollands had been royalty in their small Alabama town, her father the mayor and the banker, and Genevra had presumed she would become a queen.

  And she wasn’t far wrong. She attended Vanderbilt, was recruited for Kappa Alpha Theta, the most prestigious sorority on campus. Elected to homecoming court as a freshman, she found her true calling two years later as the wife of one of the most handsome and popular men on campus, with a family that reached back five generations in Nashville. Her wedding was the social event of the season, and she expected her life to continue as it had begun. Privileged. Entitled. Blessed.

  But it took her three painful years to conceive and two miscarriages before her daughter was born. And something went wrong, so there were no more children after that.

  But Holland was so beautiful she seemed to make up for everything. As if God and the universe were apologizing for all that came before. Even today, Genevra remembered the silky feel of her baby daughter’s fine hair. She had her mother’s famous blue eyes and fair coloring, her trim, lithe shape, and her father’s height. And though Genevra was somewhat dismayed to see her daughter’s face and body in the newspaper and Sunday circulars, she was also secretly proud.

  Until Holland moved to New York and her face began to appear on magazines and television. She had no time to come home, and when Chip and Genevra went north, little time to spend with them. They were astonished and disgusted by the noise, the vulgarity, the ever-present drugs and sex.

  Genevra shouldn’t have been surprised when Holland became pregnant, but she was. Unmarried, she refused to reveal the father’s name. Genevra shuddered, recalling the enormous embarrassment, her friends’ sidelong looks, the cruelty cloaked in kindness.

  But she weathered it. As she’d weathered earlier disappointments. By reminding herself that this was not what God intended for her, and soon He would rectify His mistake. So when Holland came home at last, Genevra knew she’d been right. She’d been chosen, and God didn’t forget His special ones.

  Until He did, she thought with a bitter laugh, and oh, how He did. With a slash of His hard, brutal whip.

  She didn’t want to think about that awful time. Some days she’d felt as though she would dry up, turn into a husk, crumble into dust, and blow away.

  Yet no matter how much she yearned otherwise, she woke every day. Woke to the same nightmare, a black dream she was forced to vanquish by denying it existed. In the end, the battle had hardened her. Robbed her of softness until every smile was brittle now.

  Genevra noticed the door of her closet ajar and realized Gillian had been there. The girl thought she was fooling her, but Genevra always knew when Gillian had been in her room. It was a sad little game they’d played for years. Genevra couldn’t bear to see what was in that book, couldn’t bear to face the loss, to see the evidence of how twisted and off-kilter her lif
e had become. But she’d saved it for Gillian. It was her granddaughter’s right to know her mother. Genevra just couldn’t introduce her.

  So Gillian sneaked in to look at the book, and Genevra pretended she didn’t know.

  Just as she pretended her golden life had continued. And that her granddaughter with the hard outer shell wasn’t fragile as lace beneath.

  Chip came in. “Didn’t know you were still awake.”

  She looked at her husband. His once-broad chest had widened and sunk, his tanned, handsome face was merely florid now. How old they had become. “Just getting ready.”

  He tottered off to do the same, but the sight of him brought back memories of the man Gillian had brought to dinner. Also tall, broad-shouldered, and strong like Chip had been.

  “Chip.” Her husband stopped in the doorway of the bathroom and turned. She rarely called him Chip anymore. It was ridiculous. You don’t call a man nearing eighty Chip. But there it was, suddenly, on the tip of her tongue and the roof of her mouth, a reminder of better days. “We must do something about that man.”

  He didn’t ask, “What man?” or “To whom are you referring, dear?” He came back slowly, watching her. “He’s kept her safe so far.”

  She looked at him in the mirror, and their eyes locked. He understood as well as she that there were many ways of staying safe, and asking the wrong questions wasn’t one.

  Charles patted her shoulder. “All right. I’ll see to it in the morning.”

  He kissed the top of her head, a gesture meant to reassure her. She squeezed the hand that rested on her shoulder. Her way of pretending that she was.

  Ray closed the bedroom door on Gillian, heard noise and voices coming from the living room. His clothes were scattered in the hallway, and he quickly picked them up, deciphering identities. Landowe, for sure. Someone else.

  Instantly, he knew why they were there, knew what had happened. He looked toward the bedroom, knocked the back of his head against the wall. Closed his eyes. Half of him felt shame; the other half would do it all over again. Neither felt right. And either way, he had to face the two men. He slid into his slacks and shrugged into the shirt. Fastened the bottom three buttons, but left the rest undone because the buttons were gone. A ripple of heat washed over him, remembering how they’d disappeared.

  Landowe was in the front room, all right. The other guy was Coleman. A big mucker with a shaved head that Carlson usually saved for more muscular work. Landowe must have been unable to dredge up anyone else.

  The two men were watching television. Women in bikinis playing beach volleyball. A half-eaten pizza sat on the coffee table in front of them. They looked at him, then back at the TV. Heat crawled up Ray’s face.

  “Lose something, Ray?” Coleman asked. He flipped a couple of tiny objects at Ray, and they landed on his chest, bounced off and onto the carpet, where they stared up at him like two white eyes. Buttons. “Can’t watch her if you’re fucking her.”

  “Sorry, Ray,” Landowe said. “You didn’t answer my last transmission.”

  Ray nodded. Christ. How many times had he heard this cliché? Sleeping with your client was one of the job’s biggest pitfalls, but never in a million years would he have predicted he’d fall into it.

  At least they’d been discreet. Hadn’t burst into the room and embarrassed Gillian. Then again, why would they? Discretion was part of the job. At any rate when it came to the clients.

  Coleman picked up a slice of pizza and bit into it. “So, Ray, was it worth it?” He nodded in the general direction of the bedrooms. “Little thing like that.” He smacked his lips. “Bet she was nice and tight.”

  Ray had Coleman by the throat before he knew he was doing it.

  “What the f—” The rest was garbled in a choking cough.

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  “Let go, you fucking asshole!”

  “Ray! Ray! Jesus.”

  Landowe hauled him away, and, breathing heavily, Ray stared at Coleman, who was red-faced and ugly.

  “Get out of here,” Landowe said, throwing Ray his ear mike, which he must have found on the floor in the hallway with the rest of his gear. “Go on. Carlson will want you front and center first thing in the morning.”

  “I’m not leaving like this.”

  Landowe looked flummoxed. “Like what?”

  “He wants to say good-bye.” Coleman snorted. “Jesus, Pearce, I’ve heard about you and your women. That cunt in there’s got you panty-whipped, too.”

  Ray rushed Coleman again, and Landowe got in his way. “Enough! Back off. Back off, Ray! Stand the fuck down!”

  Landowe’s fist was in his chest. Ray nodded, and Land-owe let him go. “We’ll explain it to her,” he said. “Get out of here.”

  Ray looked around. He was all twisted up, and he had to get clear. Think about what had happened. What it meant. Couldn’t do that with Gillian around. Hell, he could hardly breathe when she was around. Bottom line, the two men were right. He couldn’t protect her if he was emotionally involved.

  “You keep your eye on her,” he said at last. “And I mean close.”

  “We’ll see if we can get as close as you,” Coleman said.

  “Shut up, Coleman,” Landowe said, and everyone stayed in place until Ray edged to the door.

  He stumbled out of the house into the night. It was cool, but he needed the chill. Needed a swift, hard slap in the face. Sleeping with your client was bad enough. Falling in love with her was even worse.

  Hearing the tumult, Gillian dashed out of the bedroom. Had he come? Had he finally come for her? The thought that he had and that she’d left Ray to face him alone sent her streaking out of the room.

  But before she got to the living room, she realized who Ray was fighting with. Landowe and some other guy. And they weren’t fighting over the killer.

  Asshole, she thought. Who’s he calling a cunt? She could damn well sleep with whoever she pleased, and they could go fuck themselves if they didn’t like it. She started forward to say so, but the front door opened and slammed shut, and Ray was gone.

  Well, that was a sucker punch. She thought he’d have more fight in him. More stick-around. Flattening against the wall, she suddenly felt adrift and cold. She rubbed up and down her arms, remembering the feel of Ray warming her. His mouth on hers, his body inside. The slick, naked feel of him. Suddenly she didn’t need to warm up. She was already hot.

  She growled. Well, hell, she couldn’t have that. Couldn’t pine away. Not for Ray, not for anyone. He was gone. Good, fine. She had a mission to accomplish. A stalker to stalk.

  Silently, she retreated to the bedroom, pulled on her clothes, but left the boots off. Stiletto heels weren’t exactly made for escape.

  The bedroom came with its own bath, and she poked her head in. Toilet, tub, and shower combo with a striped curtain enclosure. She peeked behind the curtain. Cut into the wall was a small window, with a rotating handle for opening and closing.

  She grabbed the little armchair from the corner of the bedroom, piled her boots on the seat, and tiptoed into the bathroom with it. Flinging open the curtain, she set the chair in the tub, hopped up for a better view. She examined the window’s width. Looked like it would be a tight fit, but she might make it.

  She opened the window as far as it would go, letting in the night air. She was prying off the screen when a knock sounded on her door. Her heart thudded.

  Damn.

  She jumped down, wrenched the curtain closed. Another knock. “Miss Gray?”

  “Just a minute!”

  In a rapid flutter, she unbuttoned her shirt.

  “Everything all right, Miss Gray?” She recognized Landowe’s voice through the door.

  “Ray?” She took an extra second to muss her hair, then cracked open the door. “Oh, Landowe,” she said sleepily. She made sure he saw her open shirt, then leisurely pulled the sides together to semicover her breasts. Landowe averted his eyes, looking predictably uncomfortable and distracted.
<
br />   “Everything okay? I thought I heard—”

  “Everything’s perfect, except for the sleep I’m not getting.” She faked a yawn. “Can we do the bed check in the morning?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Landowe turned to go, and she couldn’t resist calling after him.

  “Tell Ray to get his butt in here.”

  Landowe turned, opened his mouth to reply.

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” she said sweetly, before he could, “but he has a nice butt.” She closed the door on his embarrassed “Yes, ma’am,” and quickly returned to the bathroom.

  It took her half an hour to get the screen off, but when she finally did, she tossed her boots out the window, hoping she hadn’t lost her favorite pair in vain. She took a breath, vaulted up. It was touch-and-go at first, but she was tiny enough to finally squiggle through.

  38

  From his position in the Land Rover across the street, Ray tensed as he watched the form creep out from behind the shrubs surrounding the safe house. He hooked up his wireless mike and switched it on, was going to blare an alert into it when the guy ran in and out of the light from a streetlamp, and he saw it wasn’t a guy.

  He smiled grimly. When you’re right, you’re right. No way should he have trusted those bozos to keep tabs on Gillian.

  He watched her hop on one foot as she struggled to zip up first one boot, then the other. Jesus, she didn’t even have her shoes on. Where the hell was she going? She had no car, and unless those idiots had let her get hold of a phone, she had no way to call for transportation.

  She crossed the street, scurrying down toward the subdivision exit. He let her get far enough ahead so she wouldn’t spot him, then took off after her, cruising without his headlights. From two blocks away he saw her edge toward the subdivision entrance, which was brightly lit, and try to flag down a passing car.

  Was she out of her mind?

  Stupid question. Of course she was. But luckily that was not true of the drivers in the meager traffic stream. After twenty minutes, not one had stopped.