by Karen Rose
Slip? He hadn’t slipped. He’d dived straight off a damn cliff. He clenched his fists. She should have told him to stop fucking up. She should have smacked him upside the head. But she hadn’t. She’d just looked at him, her eyes so sad. She’d been so careful not to make him feel dumb. His head dropped back and he stared at his ceiling. She’d been so nice to him. He’d wanted to blurt it all out, to tell her what had been eating him alive. He still did. She’d understand. She wouldn’t pat him on the head and tell him not to fret, that everything would be okay.
But what could she do? What could anyone do?
Brad stood up, paced, then turned to stare at his unmade bed, knowing it was there, hidden between his mattress and box springs, fighting the need to drag it out, just to look at it again.
He’d become . . . obsessed. Disgusted, he squeezed his eyes shut, made himself turn around, made himself stop looking at the line that separated the mattress from box springs. Tried to stop seeing it in his head. He opened his eyes, chanced a glance in the mirror over his dresser. Shuddered at what he saw. His eyes were red, his hair dirty, uncombed. He hadn’t shaved in days.
He was a wreck.
“Brad?”
His nerves crashed and he spun around to find Nicky standing in his doorway, his hand on the doorknob. The kid never knocked. No respect for his privacy, not from anybody in the whole damn house. Rage blazed at the intrusion and he took a step forward.
“What do you want?” he snarled, then immediately regretted his words and his tone when Nicky’s eyes widened and his baby brother shrank back, half hiding behind the door. Nicky’s lower lip trembled and Brad felt lower than shit. He made himself smile, but Nicky didn’t smile back. He stepped forward and Nicky stepped back, not taking his wide brown eyes from Brad’s face.
“I’m sorry, Nicky.” He reached to ruffle Nicky’s red hair and hated himself for Nicky’s flinch. His brother was just now getting to the point where he tolerated their touch again. Just now getting over the nightmares of guns and monsters stealing him from his bed. Nicky didn’t need any anger, least of all from him.
Brad crouched down until he was level with Nicky’s freckled face. He slowly extended his hand and touched the tip of
Nicky’s nose. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was wrong to yell at you.”
Nicky nodded. “Aunt Helen says it’s time for dinner,” he whispered back, too solemnly for a seven-year-old boy, and Brad hated himself again.
He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.
Hating himself. He thought of it again, still hidden between the mattress and box springs. Wishing it weren’t there, that he’d never laid eyes on it. Wishing his life was different. Back to the way it was before, but it never would be the same again. It was a hard truth to swallow.
Brad pulled the corners of Nicky’s mouth down in an exaggerated frown and found himself smiling at the soft, almost silent giggle that emerged from his baby brother’s lips.
Well, they could still smile, he thought.
That was something.
Friday, September 30, 5:00 P.M.
Jenna gripped the railing of the school’s front steps, the iron cold against her palm still warm from Steven Thatcher’s arm. She watched him walk across the parking lot, his stride long and strong. Even from here she could see the tight fit of his jacket across the breadth of his shoulders and remembered the way those shoulders had sagged as they’d talked about his son, as if the weight of his worry was simply too heavy to bear. Jenna chewed at her lower lip. She’d told him everything would be all right. She hoped she hadn’t told the man a lie.
How she wished she could have said, “Oh, no, Mr. Thatcher—there’s no way Brad could be involved in drugs!” in a perky little voice that would make the anguish in his eyes disappear. But that wouldn’t have been honest. She’d learned a long time ago it was far better to approach a problem with all the facts, even though the facts were often hard to accept when the fear and hurt were fresh. So she’d told him the truth. Good kids can get into trouble. He knew that already. But somehow the truth had seemed to help, making his shoulders relax just a bit.
“Jenna, you’re a fool,” she muttered. “An optimistic fool.” But she didn’t really think that was the case. She hadn’t been what anyone could call optimistic in a very long time. No, on some level, she really did believe Brad Thatcher would be all right. Maybe it was just knowing he had a dad that cared so much about him.
That had to be it.
That also had to be the reason for the urge, one she’d just barely managed to fight, to brush her fingertips across Steven Thatcher’s brow, to smooth away the deep lines of worry. Because he was a kind father who cared about his son.
Not because he had warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
Or because his shoulders were so broad. Or because his upper arm was solid and strong, yet his hands were gentle. Or because his smile over her stupid shoes had simply taken her breath away.
No, she’d had the urge to comfort him because of Brad. But the other urges were all hers and, quite frankly, surprised the hell out of her. She hadn’t felt any stirrings, not even modest ones, since . . . She sighed, the sound lonely in the quiet night. Not since Adam got sick. Certainly not since he died. See, Casey, she thought. I can say it. Died. D-i-e-d, died. I’m not in denial, for God’s sake.
It had been two years since Adam’s death, and in that time she hadn’t touched a man—not unless you counted that last friend of Casey’s boyfriend Ned, the one whose hand she’d needed to firmly remove from her ass.
She tilted her head, considering her reaction should Steven Thatcher try the same thing—she would not be nearly as annoyed. In fact . . . Just stop, she mentally ordered herself. Just stop that right now.
“Jenna Marshall,” she murmured aloud. “Shame on you.” She looked out across the parking lot to where Mr. Thatcher stood next to her car, his hands on what probably were very trim hips.
Casey would be amused, both at her noticing Steven Thatcher was indeed a man and at the way she was scolding herself for noticing. Therefore, Casey must never know. That was simple enough. What wasn’t as simple was the knowledge her body had emerged from a two-year deep sleep and her hormones were now active again. Well, you are human, she thought. You had to start looking again sometime. Just look, but don’t touch.
A cool breeze fluttered and Jenna shivered first, then frowned. Minutes had ticked by as she’d stood here balanced on one foot, woolgathering. Mr. Thatcher should have been here with her car already. In fact, where was he? She lifted herself on her toes and stared off to the edge of the parking lot only to see a gray Volvo station wagon approach, Steven Thatcher at the wheel.
He pulled the car up to the curb next to where she stood, got out, and stood inside the open driver’s door with his arms folded across the roof of his car.
“Do you have any enemies?” he demanded with a scowl. Jenna’s heart sank. Adam’s XK 150. Then her temper surged. “Only about nine hundred,” she answered from behind clenched teeth. Word of Rudy’s suspension was out and now she was on the hit list of roughly nine hundred hormonally whacked teenagers. She sighed. “How bad is it?”
“Your tires are slashed, all four of them.”
Jenna limped a few steps to lean against his passenger door. “Reparable?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. These aren’t just punctures, they’re slashes. The tires are ribbons. But that didn’t worry me as much as this.” He held a sheet of paper across the car’s roof. “Don’t touch it, except for the corner,” he cautioned.
Jenna scanned the page and her heart stilled. “ ‘Put him back on the team or you’ll roo the day you were born, you bitch,’” she read in an unsteady voice, then cleared her throat and looked up at Mr. Thatcher. “They misspelled ‘rue,’” she said, simply because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Mr. Thatcher smiled grimly. “I don’t think they were too worried about
the school spelling bee. Who’d you flunk off the team?”
Jenna stared back down at the paper in her hand. No one had ever threatened her before. Her anger fizzled, numb fear taking its place. “Rudy Lutz,” she murmured.
“The QB?” She looked up in time to see him wince. “You’re not from around here are you?”
Jenna’s temper simmered. First her car was vandalized, then this person intimated it was all her fault. Any lingering admiration of his soft brown eyes and trim hips went right out the window. “I’ve lived in North Carolina for more than ten years.”
“Then you should know the risks of interfering with high school football in the South.”
Jenna saw red. “What I know is that he failed my class and I’m not only within my rights, but my responsibility as a teacher to—to—” She stuttered to a stop when Thatcher held up his hand.
“I didn’t mean you shouldn’t have failed him.” He considered her thoughtfully. “In fact, I’d say you have some real guts to do what no other teacher’s probably ever done before.”
“Well, thank you,” Jenna began, calming again. Thatcher raised his hand again. “However, you should know that your actions are not without risk. Your car needs all new tires and you’ve been threatened. You shouldn’t park at the far end of the parking lot anymore. And ask someone to walk out with you after school—especially if it’s dark outside.” He looked around at all the cars in the lot. “I’d better take you home. I don’t like the idea of you being here all alone when that crowd breaks at halftime. It could get ugly.”
Jenna looked down at the threatening note she still held gingerly by two fingers at the upper corner, as instructed. “It already has.” She looked up and her heart skipped a beat at the sincerely caring expression in his brown eyes. Good God, Jenna, she thought, when your hormones wake up, they really wake up. Her throat was suddenly as dry as soda crackers. “I, uh, I hate to keep you from your family.”
“My aunt is probably feeding them dinner as we speak and they’re used to my odd hours. I’ll be home before bath and bedtime for sure.”
Jenna drew a breath just as an angry roar came from the direction of the football field. “That didn’t sound too cheerful, did it?”
He shook his head. “No.” He came around the car and opened the door, taking her briefcase in one hand. He feigned a stagger and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “What are you carrying in here? Bricks?” He put her briefcase in the back-seat and pretended to stretch his back.
Jenna smirked as she got in the car. “Yes. I alone have discovered the secret for turning metal into gold bricks. I change a few folding chairs to gold every day in the hopes of early retirement.”
He was chuckling when he slid into his seat. “I wouldn’t say that too loud. The parents that don’t hate you for benching the QB will torment you for your secret.” He pulled his door shut with one hand and grabbed his cell phone in the other. “Let’s go report the damage to your car and get you home and out of those ridiculous shoes.” He winced. “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”
Jenna smiled over at him as she buckled her seat belt, comfortable in their banter. “You did. But you’re right.” She held three fingers in the air, Girl Scout style. “I from here on out promise to put comfort and safety ahead of high fashion.”
“My son would ask you to spit in your palm to seal such a serious covenant.”
Jenna raised a brow. “Brad?”
A shadow passed over his face. He put the Volvo wagon in gear and headed to the back corner of the parking lot. “No, not Brad.” And just that quickly, the crinkles were gone from the corners of his eyes, replaced by the lines of worry across his forehead.
Friday, September 30, 5:45 P.M.
Necessity truly was the mother of invention.
He stood in the middle of the empty room, viewing the bare walls in the dim glow of the electric lights. Probably not a candidate for a Martha Stewart prize, but it was solid, it had a roof, electricity, running water, and best of all, it was unoccupied. Besides, with a couple of Chinese lanterns, a little paint, a bit of cheery wallpaper, perhaps a throw pillow or two—hell, he could turn this barn into a real little home away from home.
He glanced up at the rafter beams and smiled to himself. He could truly hone his craft in a place like this. He should have thought of this place sooner. To hell with sacrificing his victims under a starry sky. Starry skies clouded and threatened rain. And then didn’t deliver. He scowled. He couldn’t believe he’d aborted his plan on a false alarm. Not a single drop. He glanced down at the form at his feet. He’d stored her in the trunk of his car all night long on a goddamn false alarm.
His scowl darkened and he flexed his fist. Only to go back again this morning and be derailed by a damn dog. He’d always hated dogs. He wished he’d chased the mutt and finished him off, but if he’d left her unattended in the woods, someone would have come. That was just his luck.
He mentally took inventory of what he’d so stupidly left behind. One of his hypos was gone from his toolbox and her panties were gone from the pile of clothes he’d quickly thrown in the trunk. Damn. He’d planned to keep her dainties as a souvenir. But noooo, that fucking dog had to come sniffing, then had to play Lassie. Now there were damn cops all over the place. Luckily he’d worn his gloves. He smirked. And he’d been sure to gather all that before exiting stage left. They wouldn’t find anything of a more . . . personal nature he’d left behind.
He scowled again. Damn dog. Spoiled everything. The next time he came across a dog . . . His scowl melted into a smile as he pictured the scene in his mind. Knives and blood and gore. He nodded, satisfied with the picture. He’d take care of the next dog he met in the manner of Bundy or Dahmer. He’d read about their mutilations. First for practice, then for fun. He’d practiced himself. Often. Of course, he didn’t need to practice on animals anymore. He looked down at his feet.
Not when he had the real thing.
He nudged her with his toe, then again when she didn’t respond, harder this time. Her eyelids fluttered, opened. Her eyes widened. Her tongue slipped out to wet her lips. He’d taken the tape off—no need for her to wear uncomfortable duct tape over her mouth when they were miles away from everywhere. He smiled down at her.
“Wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable, would we, Sammie? That just wouldn’t be civilized.” He walked across the barn, each step kicking up a cloud of the sawdust that littered the floor. He crouched in front of his toolbox and surveyed the interior with the air of a sommelier choosing the night’s fine wine. He chose a syringe, a needle—fully sterilized of course—and a vial. He frowned. He was running low on supplies. He’d need to get more soon.
He stood up and crossed back to where she lay. He drew the precious liquid from the vial and withdrew the needle. He knelt down at her side. “Ready for some more dreams, Sammie?”
She struggled, but there really wasn’t much she could do under the situation. She went stiff when the needle penetrated her upper arm, then moaned. “No,” she whispered, her voice pathetically weak. “Please.”
He tilted his head to one side. “But I do please.” And he leaned forward to whisper in her ear, the suggestions as horrific as he could conjure. Her reemergence dreams would be... interesting.
“Welcome to the k-zone,” he intoned in a deep voice. But she was already too far gone to hear him. He swept the sawdust aside, sat back, and waited for the show to begin.
SIX
Friday, September 30, 6:45 P.M.
BRAD’S DR. MARSHALL HAD BEEN QUIET FOR MOST of the ride to her apartment, speaking only to give him the most basic directions. Steven pulled into an empty slot in front of her apartment and turned to study her face. After Raleigh PD took her statement she’d become subdued, as if the import of the threat was finally real. He saw it often. After an incident people tended to behave with excessive bravery or optimism—until the adrenaline wore off and reality sank in. He suspected that’s where Dr. Marshall’s mind was
at this point. Mulling over the possibilities. Who could have written that note? And would they carry through on their threat?
She sat very still, looking down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her hair hanging down so that all but the tip of her nose was obscured. Her left hand was bare, as he’d noticed before, but now he noted the thick silver ring she wore on her right thumb. A Celtic design. A man’s ring.
He didn’t like that. He didn’t like that she wore a man’s ring or that she worried it. But, of course, it didn’t matter what he didn’t like as he’d only see her this once.
Only this once.
He didn’t like that, either. To his great irritation, he realized he didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want their time together to come to an end. Hah. As if “they” had “time together.” They’d met, talked, and would likely never meet nor talk again. Still, he hesitated. She sat so quietly, staring down at her hands. Miles away. He was almost afraid to break into her thoughts. He leaned toward her and caught the coconut scent of her hair. Breathed deeply. Then cleared his throat.
“Dr. Marshall?” he said quietly.
Her head jerked up, sending her hair sliding back against her cheeks. Her eyes, wide and startled, met his, blinked, then focused. And her cheeks turned the most becoming shade of rose.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize we were here already.” Her eyes dropped to her fingers, busily fidgeting with the silver ring. “I guess I just realized that someone hates me enough to slash my tires and threaten me with hate mail.” Her lips quirked up. “Without a spell-checker of course.”
He smiled back. “Are you ready to go in?”
She reached to the floorboard for her purse. “Sure. Just give me a second to find my keys.” She rummaged for a minute, then stopped and looked back at him, her eyes almost black in the shadow of the Volvo’s overhead light, her dark brows bunched. “I think you still have them.”
“Oh.” Without taking his eyes from her face, Steven reached in his coat pocket and pulled out her keys. “Here you go.”