Her Last Chance

by Toni Anderson

  The store clerk stopped chewing and glanced nervously at Vince who blocked out most of the light. Vince’s gaze flickered to the clerk and he cocked a questioning eyebrow back at her.

  Her hissy fit was attracting the wrong kind of attention. “Don’t worry about him, he’s my bodyguard and a decorated war hero,” she reassured the clerk.

  “Anyone ever told you you’re about as subtle as a chainsaw?” Vince murmured directly into her ear.

  Gathering her supplies, she marched out of the shop and onto the street, fought the wind as it whipped her thin black sweater against her skin. It felt colder than it should have. A frigid wind cutting down from the Maritimes with the sharpness of bear claws. She shivered. Painting and anger had been the only things she could think about since she’d argued with Marsh that morning. Good job she’d been dressed before she’d run out of paint else she’d probably be standing here naked.

  Unable to concentrate on her commission, she’d put Liberty to one side and blasted pure emotion onto a fresh canvas. The result looked like road-kill and it turned her stomach when she’d recognized the inspiration for the image.

  Skillfully avoiding tourists and New Yorkers alike she strode along the sidewalk. She should contact Agent Walker to see if there was any news. Marsh wasn’t running this show; he was just trying to protect her.

  The aroma of pizza competed with gas fumes as she stood on the curb, checked for traffic and jaywalked across to Bleecker, not caring if Vince followed or not. Turning onto Grove Street she looked over her shoulder and found Vince in her shadow. Silent, scary, alert.

  And it pissed her off.

  The Blade Hunter was pulling her strings, making her dance to his tune, giving her a new life with new rules and she didn’t like it. She’d spent her childhood being controlled by others.

  The faces of mutilated women flashed vividly through her mind, her mother’s face…a girlhood memory distorted by time and gruesome crime scene pictures. Cupping her hand over her mouth, she came to a standstill in the street.

  “You okay?” Vince asked from behind her.

  “No, but I’ll live.” Hopefully. Then she spotted Marsh standing across the road outside her apartment building looking upwards at the windows. She thought he’d already left for Boston, but he looked like he’d been standing there for hours.

  Vince put a hand on her shoulder. “Be smart.”

  “Why? You need a vacation, sweet-thing?” She squinted up at the big man.

  White teeth flashed like headlights on high beam. He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “This is a vacation, cupcake.” He gave her a gentle push.

  Great. She was a wimp surrounded by superheroes with big frickin’ guns.

  Marsh turned toward her as she stumbled forward. “You come to your senses yet?” His words grabbed her temper by the scruff of the neck and gave it a good shake.

  “I’m staying.”

  Disappointment flickered in the hazel of his eyes and it hurt. Dammit, this was why she didn’t get involved. Being alone was a damn sight easier than trying to live up to someone else’s expectations. And knowing she’d miss the SOB when he left sat about as well as waiting for a serial killer to strike. But maybe it was better this way.

  Hoisting her bag of supplies under one arm she unlocked the front door. Marsh stepped up behind her and she glanced sideways, watched Vince raise a hand in farewell.

  “He’s grabbing enough food and gear to last the next forty-eight hours.” His voice was neutral and gave nothing away. It didn’t have to. He’d made his opinion perfectly clear.

  “He doesn’t have to stay the whole time.” She flung the door open, shocked when Marsh twisted her in his arms and pushed her up against the front door, his hands in a vise-like grip on her arms.

  “Why do you act like you don’t even care?”

  The hair on her nape rose. She kept her mouth closed.

  “Why do you act like nothing ever bothers you?” Strain etched every muscle. His shoulders trembled and the skin around his mouth was deathly white. Her nerves hummed like a wasp. She’d pushed him too far.

  “What would you do if he came after you?” He jerked away like he couldn’t stand to touch her for a moment longer. “What would I do?”

  Heart pounding, she started up the stairs.

  “Josephine!” The anguish in his voice made her swing to face him. The light in his eyes vivid and bright, wringing out emotions she didn’t know how to deal with.

  “I can’t do this, Marsh. I don’t even know how to be in a relationship under normal circumstances.” To her horror tears spilled out. “Right now I can’t think of anything except getting through this alive.”

  Bolting up the stairs her footsteps rebounded through the stairwell. Her heartbeat raced faster and faster, her lungs bursting with the need for oxygen, but she couldn’t take a breath.

  She’d made it to the second floor before Marsh began to follow. She wasn’t running away from him. She needed some space. And you keep telling yourself that…

  At the top of the stairs she stopped so fast she skidded on the smooth floor.

  The door to her apartment stood ajar. Did I leave it open? She slowed, uncertain. The wood was crushed beside the handle. It had been jimmied.

  “Stand behind me.” Marsh unclipped his weapon.

  Waves of adrenaline caused blood to pulse through her ears. She grabbed the back of Marsh’s jacket and held on for dear life.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Her heart hammered and sweat began to run down her forehead, dripping into her eyes.

  Reaching behind his back with one hand, he pried her fingers loose and captured them in his. Bringing them to his lips he gave her a brief kiss and a tight smile before motioning her behind him as he hugged the wall. Never taking his eyes from the doorway, he took out his cell phone and speed-dialed a number, thrust the phone into Josie’s hands.

  “What now?” she whispered.

  Marsh held his finger to his lips and mouthed, “We wait.”

  “For what?” she whispered back.

  A door crashed open below and boots clattered up the stairs.

  “Back up.” Marsh smiled. The effect was terrifying.

  Vince arrived at the top of the stairs with his pistol drawn, the sheen of sweat on his forehead and a deadly expression on his face.

  Wordlessly the two men moved into position and swept into the apartment the way she’d seen a thousand times on the TV. Marsh dragged her inside, the grip on her wrist so tight it hurt, but she wasn’t complaining. The last thing she wanted was to be left alone—a great moment for that epiphany. God, she was a stubborn fool.

  The lounge looked undisturbed. Marsh and Vince tag-teamed every possible hiding place, checking the kitchen, bathrooms, closets.

  Josie stood in the center of her studio stunned. He’d taken the painting…

  Lightheaded, she allowed herself to be maneuvered into the guestroom as they checked under the bed and inside the built-ins. Nausea crept into her throat. He’d been here. A shiver of repulsion slid over her skin. She followed Marsh back into the living room. More footsteps echoed up the stairwell and voices shouted. Agents Dancer and Walker burst into the apartment, but Marsh and Vince never glanced up. They were focused on the last remaining possible hiding place for an intruder. Her bedroom.

  Fear soured on her tongue as she followed them.

  Vivid red splattered the white covers, dripped onto the hardwood floor. The stench of turpentine and paint curled up inside her nostrils; the tools of her trade used to terrorize. The message daubed on the wall sent a chill into her frozen heart.

  U R DEAD.

  “He has to get through me first.” Marsh holstered his weapon.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, fought to keep her teeth from chattering. “It’s also the last thing he said to me the night he killed Angela Morelli.”

  “Funny how you forgot to mention that earlier,” Special Agent Walker snapped.

  “Funny?” Her voice ro
se shrilly. “I figured the message was clear enough that even the feds could figure it out.”

  “We need to search the whole building.” Walker nodded to Dancer, and Vince followed them to the front door.

  Her knees wobbled and Marsh swept her up in his arms and placed her gently on the couch.

  Her teeth rattled. “He’s telling me he can get to me anytime he wants.”

  “He’s taunting you.” Marsh rested his hands on his hips and stared down at her. “I won’t let him get you, Josephine.”

  But there was a kernel of satisfaction in his voice. “You’re glad about this?”

  “No.” He pressed his lips together, trying to control his temper. “But I’m glad you weren’t here alone when the bastard broke in.”

  Point made.

  “I was only gone half an hour.” A sudden thought struck her. “How did he get in the building—did you see him?”

  Marsh shook his head, glancing around the apartment as if looking for anything that might be missing. “He must have stolen a key from Angela Morelli’s apartment but I thought your super was changing the locks?”

  “Friday.”

  “I still don’t know how he knew where you lived. Investigations can be slow processes but…fuck.”

  Agent Walker strolled back into the apartment. “We need to process the scene—”

  “You don’t really think he left anything behind, do you?” Marsh raised one quizzical brow at his fellow agent.

  “Well, I’m not going to miss an opportunity to track this man, sir,” Walker replied.

  “You already have his DNA. Any hits?” Marsh asked.

  She’d forgotten about the blood she’d drawn when she’d bitten him. The reminder turned her stomach.

  Sam Walker’s lips thinned. “He’s not in the system.”

  Marsh frowned. “Did you finish checking the rest of the building?”

  Walker nodded. “Got teams going through each apartment right now, but most of them are still empty following the first murder. And we’re going to set up video surveillance back and front of the property ASAP.”

  Why hadn’t they done that a few days ago?

  She looked down and spotted the red paint encrusting her fingernails like fresh blood. “He took a painting.”

  “What painting?” the feds asked in unison.

  Josie swallowed, feeling sick that she’d betrayed those women by painting an image of the torture they’d endured. It was abstract, but the Blade Hunter had known exactly what he’d been looking at.

  “I painted it this morning.” She scrubbed her eyes, feeling dizzy. “It’s abstract, but it’s about the murders. It’s about blood and agony.”

  Marsh pressed her head between her knees before she realized she was close to passing out. He knelt beside her on the rug. “You’re coming with me, Josephine, and if you fight me I’m going to handcuff you and drag you there.”

  “There’s always protective custody.” Sam Walker spoke to Marsh not her. She gripped Marsh’s hand and dug in her nails to tell him exactly what she thought of that idea.

  “That’s okay, Agent Walker.” He rubbed her hand gently. “She’s coming with me for a few days. After that we’ll need to figure out some other arrangement until we can catch this guy.”

  “The whole city is on high alert. The media are going crazy so we should have more resources soon,” said Walker.

  “Can you walk?” Marsh asked her quietly.

  “Of course.” She hoped.

  “Anything here you can’t live without?” He held out his hand as if expecting her to say no.

  Instead she shook him off and stumbled toward the closet near the front door. Her knapsack lay on the floor. She opened it and peeked inside. Marion’s ashes were safe within the funky little urn Josie had painted.

  “Just this.” She clasped the knapsack in front of her and ignored his curious frown. “Nothing else matters.”

  ***

  Five hours later, Marsh watched the sway of Josephine’s hips as he followed her and his mother along the upstairs hallway of the family home.

  Alternate realities set on a collision course.

  They glided like ghosts over the thick oriental runner, footsteps silent as moth’s wings. The subtle odor of beeswax teased his nostrils and brought with it a cascade of memories that faded inexorably with each passing year. Two boys sword-fighting along this hallway, sliding down the banister and clambering over furniture. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and forced away the memories.

  His life was about to change. Again.

  Whether they realized it or not, the two most important people in his life were sizing one another up. Josephine paused on the bedroom’s threshold. It was the same room she’d stayed in six months ago, but his parents had been away at the time. Would Josephine recognize it? The décor had changed again.

  His mother moved restlessly from one room to the next in their enormous Louisburg Square home, decorating in a forlorn effort to fill the void. Marsh worked his ass off and his father golfed. How else did you cope with the loss of a beloved son or revered brother?

  Josephine lowered her knapsack carefully to the floor beside the bed where it landed with a hollow thud.

  What the hell was in that thing?

  The bed was made up with a lavish mixture of shiny mauve, cream and purple sheets, with enough covers and pillows to survive a Canadian winter.

  “I can’t believe what happened to poor Lynn.” Beatrice Hayes stood inside the room, her hand resting on her heart. She gave a little shake of her head. “I called to leave my condolences, but Lydia wasn’t receiving. She’s under medication.” Her eyes flicked nervously away.

  Lydia—Lynn Richards’ mother.

  Josephine caught his eye and they exchanged a moment of guilt.

  His mother folded and unfolded her hands across her chest, probably unsettled by the less than friendly expression on Josephine’s face. This was the first time he’d ever brought a woman home, and she wasn’t exactly the girl next door.

  “Josephine has been attacked twice by this killer, once when she was only a small child.” Marsh knew he’d go to hell for playing on his mother’s sympathies, assuming Josephine didn’t kill him first for sharing her secrets. His mom softened visibly, her maternal instincts staunch enough to overlook the fact Josephine was no longer a child, but a full grown woman that her son lusted after.

  “I’ll try and find you some clothes to wear, dear.” Bea frowned as she assessed Josephine’s tall slender frame. His mother was about seven inches shorter and four sizes wider. “Actually you’d better go out to the boutique at the end of the road, Marshall, and pick up some things. I can’t believe he didn’t give you time to change.”

  Yeah, because clothes were more important than getting Josephine away from danger.

  She looked down at her paint spattered jeans and frowned, a bewildered light entering her eyes. “The FBI wanted to search my place and I didn’t want to wear anything the guy might have touched…”

  Bea’s hand flew to her throat. “Oh, of course not. Please forgive me, dear. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She gave a delicate shudder, crossed over and hugged Josephine briefly, as if someone touching her underwear was the worst thing his mother could imagine. He hoped to God that never changed.

  Josephine’s wild frantic eyes shot a pleading look in his direction. He shrugged.

  This was what happened when two worlds collided.

  “You redecorated in here?” He made an attempt at light conversation.

  His mother released her and smiled, happy to be distracted from the baser side of life. “Yes, dear, though your father wasn’t happy when I had the wood paneling painted white.”

  No kidding. Marsh coughed.

  “Not that I told him until after it was finished.” She squeezed his arm, her fingers soft on the sleeve of his jacket. He bet his father had gone ballistic when the antique wood had received a facelift, but then nobody really cared
as long as Bea was happy. Except she was never really happy. Pain lingered in the corners of her eyes, in the lines around her soft mouth.

  And that’s why he’d gone on a date with a young woman who’d ended up dead.

  “It brightens the room, don’t you think?” Bea’s anxious hazel eyes, so like his own, so like Robert’s, appealed to him now.

  He wanted to say yes, it brightened the room, but the lump in his throat blocked the words. Who cared? His mother’s smile faltered.

  “It’s beautiful.” Josephine hovered beside the bed as if afraid to sit down. She cleared her throat, walked to the casement window, peered into the dark square beyond. “Pretty fancy digs.”

  “And the security is top of the range.” He squinted down at his mother. “You are still using the alarm system we installed, right?”

  Bea flapped her hands at him. “Your father keeps setting the silly thing off with his midnight strolls to the kitchen.” She smiled, the lines on her smooth cheeks creasing, “We keep the outside one turned on, of course, but inside…” Her voice trailed off.

  “I’ll talk to Dad—until we catch this killer we have to assume he might track Josephine here.” He held his mother’s gaze, read her silent query as to why he’d brought danger into their home. She was too polite to call him on it.

  Josephine prowled the background like a tiger locked in a too-small cage. The sequins on her flip flops shimmered in the light from the ornate chandelier.

  “So how long have you two known each other?” Bea asked, smiling at Josephine so guilelessly Marsh wanted to shout a warning, but she answered naively.

  “We have a mutual friend who got into some trouble last April.” Josephine shrugged a shoulder and missed his grimace. His mother didn’t.

  Bea turned back toward Josephine, assessing her for a full ten seconds with only the ticking carriage clock to fill the silence. The lighting made Josephine’s hair glow white against the darkness of the window, all three of them reflected there like ghosts.

  Conscious of possible onlookers, Marsh walked over and closed the drapes. Stood tall at Josephine’s shoulder.

  Eyes sharp, lips considering, Bea examined them both. Then she nodded. “You must be terrified, Josephine. Do you mind if I call you Josephine?”