Depth Perception

by Linda Castillo

  She glanced down at the dozen or so droplets of blood. "I had a bloody nose earlier."

  "How did you get a bloody nose?"

  "I bumped it."

  "Uh huh." He stared hard at her. "Do you have any idea how much you upset the LaRues?"

  “I have a pretty good idea." She rubbed her arm where Jean had grabbed it.

  "Jean seems to think you've got some kind of vendetta against him because of what happened three years ago. Is that true?"

  "I know he was just doing his job. Honestly, I just wanted to make sure their kids were all right."

  "Do you have any idea how strange that sounds, Nat? Considering the circumstances?"

  She looked away, nodded.

  "Have you been drinking alcohol tonight?"

  Her gaze snapped to his. "No!"

  "Are you on any kind of medication?"

  "No."

  "A doctor's care?"

  "No." She pinched the bridge of her nose, shook her head. Jesus.

  He sighed. "I'm going to write this up as a neighbor dispute. No citation for you. But you're going to have to stay away from Jean and Paulette. You got that?"

  Nat nodded. "Loud and clear."

  "He's going to file a restraining order against you. You violate that, and you're going to jail."

  "I won't bother them again," she said.

  He didn't say anything for a moment. "I don't believe you really saw a guy in a Chevy. I don't know why you'd make up a story like that, but you did, didn't you?"

  Nat knew better than to admit to a lie. This was one of those rare moments when a lie--even a bad one--was a better alternative than the truth. "I'm telling the truth,” she said.

  "Uh-huh."

  For a moment she considered asking him to keep an eye on the LaRue children, but she figured such a request at this point would do more harm than good. Besides, Jason was in the hospital for an appendectomy. What harm could come to him there?

  "Can I go now?" she asked.

  "Next time you see something suspicious, call the police," he said.

  Nat started for her car without responding. She could feel Matt's eyes and a dozen more follow her as she opened the door and slid behind the wheel. She told herself their disdain didn't bother her; being an outcast was nothing compared to the hell she'll been though in the last few years. She could handle it.

  But as she pulled onto the street, she acknowledged the pain. And she vowed that if it was the last thing she aid, these self-righteous jackasses were going to know Nat Jennings was not a murderer.

  # # #

  He sits in the front seat of his SUV in the parking garage of the hospital, shaking with rage. The window is down and his labored breaths echo off the concrete walls around him. His heart pounds adrenaline and fury through his system.

  He doesn't know how she did it, but the bitch has foiled his plans. But how could she have known? He'd been so careful, waiting until just the right moment. He'd been meticulous in his planning, right down to the tiniest detail. Jason LaRue would have been so satisfying. So brilliant. He would have been the one that set him free.

  He'd been moments away from killing Jason LaRue when the deputy had arrived with his shiny badge and six shooter. Stupid, stupid cop. He'd listened to the conversation between the cop and the nurse and that was when he'd realized Nat Jennings was behind the added security. That she'd made some kind of weird threat against Jean LaRue's son.

  A cold sweat breaks out all over his body. He doesn't like the timing of it. But how could Nat Jennings have known what he had planned? It's as if she's climbed into his mind and stolen his innermost thoughts. His dark. secret thoughts. He knows it's impossible, but still he is afraid.

  And very, very angry.

  Fury courses through him at the thought of what she deprived him of. The need is desperate and sharp inside him, and he feels it all the way to his bones. The hunger torments him, a starving animal clawing his insides to shreds. He has ached for days now. A terrible pain that never leaves him. An agony that keeps him up nights, like a freshly broken bone screaming to be set.

  Opening the small duffel on the seat next to him, he pulls out the towel with a shaking hand and unwraps the knife. The blade gleams, and his blood begins to pound. He knows better than to do this here. The last thing he needs is for someone to walk by and see him. But this won't wait. Urgency and anticipation coil and snap inside him. Oh, sweet Jesus, he needs this.

  He can hear himself breathing heavily as he unbuttons his shirt. Glancing down at his chest and stomach, he sees that the old wounds are healing nicely. All but the deepest cuts are nothing more than tiny pink lines. The rest are scabbed over. He stares at the raised pink slashes of scar tissue criss-crossing his abdomen. Most people would think the scars are hideous. But they don't understand that he needs to do this.

  That it brings him pleasure and comfort. That the sight of blood welling on his own skin feeds something twisted inside him. Light flickers on the blade as he picks up the knife. His palms are so sweaty he can barely grip it. Leaning against the seat back, he sets the blade against his flesh. Pain flares as he draws the knife across his chest, from nipple to nipple to naval. Red blooms in its wake, and a rush of pleasure engulfs him.

  "Ah . . . God . . ." His voice echoes eerily in the garage. A weak, feminine sound that shames him, reminds him of what he is.

  But the sight of his own blood excites him. His penis is hard and aching between his legs. He can't look away as the blood drips toward his belt. He runs his fingers through the brilliant red streaks, slippery and wet between his fingers. He can feel his heart beating. Lifting his hand, he opens his mouth and touches his tongue to the blood. So good, and yet it shames him because he knows it is wrong. He knows they will never understand.

  "Goddamn it." He closes his eyes against the sudden rush of tears. "Fuck. Fuck! Goddamn her. Goddamn them all."

  They will never understand. But they don't know about the terrible things that were done to him. Things that made him want to die. Things that made him what he is. Tasting bile at the back of his throat, he throws open the door and retches. Vomit spews onto the concrete, and all he can think is that this is her fault. For coming back. For interfering. This should have been perfect. Perfect! And she ruined everything.

  He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, aware that his penis has gone flaccid. He shudders uncontrollably. Sweat slicks the back of his neck. His stomach cramps. His bowels feel loose, and he realizes with dismay that he is about to soil his pants.

  Once again he has been reduced to a shaking, sniveling nothing. A coward who throws up and soils his pants. Just like when he was twelve years old. Locked in that room. Alone in the dark with things crawling all over him . . .

  He has been humiliated for the last time. He is going to show them just how powerful he is. He is going to show all of them.

  Using the towel, he blots the blood from his chest. His hands tremble as he buttons the shirt. The need recedes back into its deep, dark hole. Once again he is in control.

  Putting the SUV in gear, he heads toward the exit.

  Chapter 20

  Nat made it two blocks before the shakes hit her. She didn't know if it was the result of anger or relief or maybe a combination of both, but she was shaking so hard she didn't trust herself to drive. She pulled over in the parking lot of Manchac's Burger Villa and waited for the worst of the shaking to subside.

  It took her nearly ten minutes to get herself calmed down. The worst thing that had happened was that the police had been called and that Jean LaRue was going to get a restraining order against her. A small price to pay, she thought, considering she'd probably saved a child's life. For now, that had to be enough.

  Feeling steadier, she went through the drive-through and bought a chocolate shake, then headed out of town toward home. The night was mild and humid, so she rolled down the window and sang aloud to the Wallflowers' "One Headlight." For just a little while, she wasn't going to think about the past
or the state of her life.

  A few miles out of town, she passed Pelican Island Road--the road to hell according to her mama when Nat was in high school--and found herself thinking about Nick Bastille. She'd relived the incident between them a dozen times in the hours since it happened. She recalled with perfect clarity the heat in his eyes when he'd looked at her. The way he'd trembled when he held her. The gentle touch of his hands against her body. The pressure of his mouth against hers . . .

  He might be an ex-con living on the edge of the bayou in a dilapidated house on a run-down farm, but Nat knew there was more to Nick than met the eye, even if you had to look closely to see it. She sensed something decent and good beneath that hard facade. What kind of man put in endless hours of backbreaking work on a farm, spent his evenings working a second job, all the while caring for his father, who was afflicted with Alzheimer's disease? A man with character, she thought. A man who cared about all the right things. And for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, she allowed herself to feel the barely familiar stir of feminine interest.

  She'd long since given up on the notion of happiness. In the last three years, it had taken every ounce of determination she possessed just to get through the day. She'd learned to simply exist and not expect too much from anyone, including herself. Slowly but surely, Nick was changing that. Today, in the short minutes he'd held her in his arms, Nat had felt something that went deeper than mere sexual arousal. After everything that had happened in the last three years, that she was capable of feeling something so fundamentally human--so fundamentally female--shocked her.

  Nick Bastille hadn't just touched her. He'd moved her. He'd given her back something she'd thought was gone forever. He'd given her hope. Hope for the future. Hope that someday she would be whole. That life didn't have to be about pain and loss. That happiness wasn't just for other people.

  Suddenly ridiculously anxious to see him, she slowed the Mustang and turned around. Gravel spewed when she hit the gas. Turning up the radio, she turned onto Pelican Island Road, where The Blue Gator would just be winding into high gear. Smiling, she picked up the shake and, for the first time in months, she actually tasted food. The ice cream was rich and cold and suddenly she was famished. Not just for food, but for life.

  She was midway to the bar when headlights appeared in her rearview mirror. "Go around if you're in such a hurry,” she muttered, checking her speed. In the next instant the headlights loomed dangerously close. She had a split second to brace before the vehicle slammed into her rear bumper hard enough to bang her head against the headrest.

  "What are you doing?" she snapped. But she heard the fear in her voice. It was too dark for her to see the vehicle, the headlights too bright, but she knew it was an SUV or truck because it rode higher off the ground than her Mustang.

  She slowed, but the SUV zoomed up beside her. She caught a glimpse of tinted glass and a black side view mirror an instant before the vehicle slammed into her car. Steel ground against steel as the Mustang fishtailed. Gasping, Nat gripped the wheel with both hands, turned into the skid, and managed to regain control an instant before the wheels would have gone off the shoulder.

  She hit the brake, then glanced over to see the SUV fall back. Relieved, she slowed to forty miles per hour. An instant later, headlights slashed, and the SUV crashed into her rear bumper. The impact was violent and sent the Mustang into a slide.

  She took her foot off the brake, but the SUV threatened her bumper again, so she hit the gas. Simultaneously, she reached for her cell phone, which was clipped inside her purse. In the instant she took her eyes off her rearview mirror, the big vehicle came up beside her. Metal screamed when the SUV slammed into her door. The Mustang skidded right. Nat cut the wheel and would have regained control, but the SUV banged into her a second time. She stomped the brake, but it was too late. The rear tires lost purchase, and the Mustang went into a spin.

  Nat screamed as her headlights played wildly over the tall grass and billowing dust. She lost sight of the SUV. The Mustang flew by a tree, missing its massive trunk by inches. Reeds exploded off her front bumper as the Mustang careened down an embankment. A scream tore from her throat when the headlights glinted off black water. An instant later, the car hit the surface. Nat was jerked hard against her safety belt. The airbag exploded with the force of a bomb, striking her in the chest and face hard enough to daze.

  For several heartbeats she sat there unmoving. The radio was still blaring. She could see the glow of her headlights through water the color of strong tea. She smelled the stink of mud. The sensation of cold water on her feet jerked her back. The car was in the water and nosing down. She saw moss against the windshield, water gushing in through her open window.

  Panic struck with a vengeance. A scream poured from her throat. Frantically, she fought away the remnants of the airbag. The radio had stopped playing, and she could hear the roar of the water rushing in, ragged breaths tearing from her throat. Her heart exploding in her chest.

  The car shifted, nosed down at a steeper angle. She was still strapped in. The steering wheel was directly below her. The water was up to mid thigh now, edging over the, steering wheel.

  "Oh, God! Oh, God! Help meeeeeee!"

  But Nat knew there was no one around to hear her.

  She fumbled for the latch on her harness. But she was disoriented and couldn't remember if it was on the left or right. Another surge of panic crashed through her. She'd once read about a driver whose car had plunged into a Jake. An expert swimmer who'd become disoriented and drowned because he couldn't get out of the car. She wasn't going to let that happen to her.

  She located the latch on her harness, released it. Gravity sent her plunging down. The steering wheel struck her in the chest. knocking the breath from her. An instant later cold, black water enveloped her like an icy cloak. She tried to suck in a breath, took in water, and began to choke.

  She managed to get her feet on the steering wheel, then used her legs to push herself upright. Suddenly she fell air on her face. She opened her eyes to find her head in the back window. Through the dirty glass, she could see a small stretch of night sky. She could hear herself choking and sobbing. Panic was a scream inside her. She struck the glass with her fist, but couldn't get enough momentum to break it.

  "Help me!"

  Realizing her only escape was through one of the open windows, that she didn't have much time, she sucked in a deep breath, then ducked into the water and began feeling her way toward the window. She hit her thigh on the driver's-side headrest. She grasped the seat belt with her left hand and used it to pull herself down. Her ears hurt. She needed to take a breath. Just a little farther . . .

  She reached out and felt glass, then her hand plunged into mud. For an instant she feared that maybe the car had rolled onto its side and that she was trapped. Then she thrust both hands through the window and felt open water.

  Blind, desperate for oxygen, Nat thrust her body through the window and began to kick. But she was disoriented and couldn't tell up from down. All she knew was that if she didn't get a breath, she was going to pass out.

  She opened her eyes, but the water was pitch black. She could feel the darkness and cold edging in. She kicked her feet, hoping what little oxygen she had left in her lungs would float her to the surface. But she could feel her strength waning. Her lungs seized, and Nat sucked in water. She began to choke, her entire body convulsing.

  Oh, God, I'm drowning . . .

  But Nat didn't stop kicking, and an instant later, she broke the surface. She could hear herself coughing and retching. Her legs felt as if they had been set in concrete, but she continued to tread water. She looked around but couldn't see the bank, didn't know which direction to swim.

  Then she spotted the cattails against the night sky and began to dog paddle toward them. She was cold and fatigued and coughing so violently she thought she would be sick. But she was going to make it.

  Then she was going to make the son of a
bitch in the SUV pay for trying to kill her.

  # # #

  It was ten P.M. on a Thursday, and The Blue Gator was just winding into high gear. Nick Bastille stood behind the bar, listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers lament the City of Angels as he wiped the rack of mugs Rita had brought to him from the dishwasher in the rear. Working on thirty-six hours without sleep, he was bone tired. After leaving Tanya's trailer, he'd gone home, prepared dinner for Dutch, then hauled himself off to bed. But even exhausted, he hadn't been able to sleep. Between his visit to his ex-wife's trailer and the time he'd spent with Nat Jennings, his mind had been as revved up as a 747 barreling down the runway for .takeoff.

  Seeing the place where his son had drowned added a . cruel twist to the old pain. It had made him ache in a place so deep there was nothing on this sweet earth that could reach it. For the thousandth time he had questioned God, asking Him why He'd taken his sweet little boy, an innocent child who'd done nothing to deserve such a terrible fate. But Nick knew it was a question that would never be answered.

  And then there was Nat Jennings. She was heat and ice and sharp edges rolled into one very intriguing package. A beautiful woman with haunting eyes and a broken heart. A vixen with the kind of body that would never give a man any peace. She was all the things he didn't need in his life.

  But she was exactly what he wanted.

  Nick hadn't intended to kiss her. He sure as hell hadn't expected the explosion of heat that followed. He knew that kind of heat could burn a man to embers if he wasn't careful. He wasn't looking to get burned again. All he wanted were a few laughs and some no-strings-attached. sweaty, raunchy sex.

  Lots and lots of sweaty. raunchy sex.

  But he knew Nat Jennings wasn't a no-strings-attached kind of woman. She was complicated and troubled and dealing with the kind of grief that would have crushed a lesser person. While Nick could sympathize, he wanted no part of it.