Winterfall

by Denise A. Agnew

  She stood and tried a smile. “That wasn’t a few minutes.”

  “Sorry.” He didn’t look as if he regretted it. His warm hands cupped her shoulders. “I didn’t want to leave you alone too long. You okay?”

  Her throat tightened. “I don’t know. I can’t decide how to feel.”

  “Maybe now is a good time to just feel rather than to decide.”

  His statement hit her in the stomach, and she lost all her air. “That’s profound.”

  She saw a flash of exasperation in his gaze and lowered her eyes.

  He tilted her chin up and urged her closer. His voice went soft and low. “Don’t hide from me. It’s okay to be who you are and show how you feel. It’s safe.”

  She smoothed her hands over his broad chest, thankful for the heat and hardness anchoring her place. Thankful for the deep-down knowledge she could tell him the truth. He’d understand. He’d give her room.

  “No one’s ever said something like that to me before,” she said, her voice cracking a little.

  “We’ve never been here and in this situation before.”

  She gathered his shirt in her fingers, bunching up the fabric, afraid on a primal level all her strength would escape her when she desperately needed it. She wanted it. Craved it.

  “I’ve got good news,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “You can go home. Morrison said the fire marshal has cleared the area.”

  “Wow, that’s faster than I expected.” She kept her grip on his shirt. “But it’s good. I won’t impose on your hospitality any longer.”

  “Nah. You aren’t imposing. If you’re not comfortable going home yet, you’re welcome to stay at Sentry.”

  “No, I don’t want to depend on the security.”

  He tilted his head slightly to the side. “You’re a damned independent woman. It’s sexy.”

  A ball of heat burned low in her stomach. “Thank you. You’ve been taking care of me a lot lately. I haven’t been that independent.”

  “Everyone needs a little help sometimes.”

  She smiled, but it was soft and half-hearted. “Why are you so well adjusted, O’Day?”

  He laughed. “Dumb luck.”

  Weariness made her eyes close. “I just can’t believe everything that’s happened in such a short time. I can’t believe my father confessed. It’s surreal.”

  “It’s a lucky break. If they hadn’t found him in that shelter, he could have…shit he would have started more fires.”

  “True. But something doesn’t feel right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I still don’t think my father wrote those letters. I don’t know why.”

  “Who knows how prison changed him? He could be that ugly person. What’s the likelihood of two arsonists running around Buckleport at the same time?”

  She shrugged, and his hands slid from her shoulders. “I think in this world anything is possible.”

  “Maybe. Want to go home?”

  “Yes. Let’s get this show started.” Once more a shiver of reaction ran through Juliet. “I need to get back on track. Back to the fire station.”

  “Give yourself some slack. There’s a lot going on in your life.”

  “I feel…I feel as if nothing makes sense. My father just confessed to setting the fires, and I can believe it. But those letters?”

  Her stomach curled with revulsion. She closed her eyes, but all she saw was her father’s thin face and body as she heard his confession. Tears prickled her eyes.

  Mark drew her close. His arms sheltered her, and Juliet sank willingly into his embrace. Tears trickled from her eyes, but she didn’t sob. Her tears were for who and what? All she craved…who she desired, held her right now.

  She lifted her head and wiped away her tears, but she didn’t back away from him. “Let’s go and get my stuff, and I’ll head home.”

  They started to walk toward the back door, when he stopped and looked around. “Nice garden. But this isn’t the secluded place I was talking about.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, I think you should show me that place very soon.”

  She found a smile, and his answering teasing grin held heat and longing. They reached Sentry Security but as usual the trip across town took extra time—traffic was thicker as the day grew later. Everyone was out, including the General, and after she’d gathered her weekender case, Mark took her home. When they arrived at her house, she ignored the burned hulks across the street. He turned off the SUV.

  “Your abode, ma’am.” He smiled, but the grin looked weary. “Want me to check the place out?”

  She smiled. “You’ve already done enough for me. Don’t get out of the car.”

  His gaze slid over hers, a genuine concern simmering in his eyes. His fingers slid into her hair, and a deep ache started inside her. His touch was so damned gentle. Tenderness broke her, and a tear escaped. He wiped the tear away, and his mouth tasted hers swiftly and tenderly. A sweet and delicious brushing of lips that fueled a hungry want.

  She drew back slowly. “Thanks for everything, Mark. You’ve been amazing.”

  He screwed up his face as he released her. “Ah shucks, Van Pelt. You’re good for my ego.”

  She slapped his shoulder gently. “I’m outta here.”

  “I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Later.”

  “I’ll wait until you’re inside.”

  She waved one hand. “Thanks, but it isn’t necessary.”

  She left the car and dragged her suitcase from the back seat. He waved and pulled away from the curb. The whole damned area still smelled like smoke, but she ignored it. She headed for the mailbox and opened it. Only one piece of mail nestled in the metal box. She slipped the envelope out and glanced at it. Same type of envelope and blue ink as the other arson letters. Every hair on the back of her neck prickled. She glanced around, half expecting someone standing there watching. Instead there wasn’t another vehicle on the street other than Mark’s SUV as it retreated down the road.

  Her heart stuttered, her breath catching. “No. No.”

  She stared after the SUV and on impulse she lifted her arms and waved frantically. She almost screamed Mark’s name, but the SUV had already crested the hill and down the other side. He couldn’t see her.

  “Damn it,” she whispered as she headed toward the house. “Get a spine.”

  She’d call Detective Morrison and let him know there was another letter, then she’d call Mark. Obviously this wasn’t good. Hell, it was spooky. Her father couldn’t have put the letter in her mailbox if he’d been in the hospital, right?

  She juggled the keys and let herself in—the house smelled musty and she wanted to air it out, but at the same time she needed to call the cops. She locked the door behind her, tossed the letter on the coffee table and drew her cell out of her purse. Curtains drawn over the windows kept the living room semi dark, and she quickly pulled back two shades. Light streamed in as she retrieved the contacts on her phone and dialed Detective Morrison. His phone rang but went to voice mail. She left a message. Before she could dial Mark to update him, a shadow moved out of the corner of her right eye and she started.

  A man she’d never seen before stood in the entryway between the kitchen and the living room. He pointed a handgun at her. Her heart thudded, stumbled and started a rapid tattoo. Fear sliced deep. A thousand thoughts flew through her mind. Would she live to see another hour? Another minute? Who the hell was this guy? Someone who’d randomly picked her house to ransack?

  Around six feet tall, the guy had a wiry, skinny frame. Glasses on his cadaver-thin face looked unusually thick—like the kind nearsighted people used to wear before lenses had gotten thinner. Even from here she could see his gray eyes lacked a soul. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt, a navy blue tie and pressed navy slacks. His nose was sharp, his mouth thin. If she had to guess, she’d say he could be anywhere from forty to fifty years old.

  “Hey, darlin’,” he said before
she could speak.

  Stunned, she didn’t move. Her hand stayed wrapped around her phone, her bag still slung over her shoulder. “Who are you?”

  “Davis Coker,” he said as if she should have heard of him.

  He stepped forward, and every muscle in her body stiffened. “Why are you in my house with that gun?”

  He made a soft snorting noise. “What am I doing here? You should know by now.” His eyes turned colder, his mouth compressing in disapproval. “How could you not know?”

  She flinched when he shouted. “I’m sorry. Have we met before?”

  “I know you. There’s never been a time when I didn’t feel like I knew you.” He moved forward a couple of steps. “You’re the light in my life. But I don’t understand why you won’t respond to my letters.”

  Oh, shit.

  The man who’d sent her those letters stood right here in her living room as a nightmare played out in front of her. Relief mixed with the acid already churning in her gut. At least her father hadn’t sent those notes. That’s what her father had tried to tell her in the hospital.

  Her phone rang and she started again. Automatically she looked down at the phone. Mark. Mark! Please let him realize something is wrong. Maybe he’s coming back. Maybe he’s close by already. As one part of her mind rattled off wishes and hopes, the other tried to think of a way to keep this nut job talking. Time would help her. Think, Juliet. Think.

  She slipped her finger over the answer button, but she didn’t tap it firmly enough and the phone kept ringing. “It’s my aunt Marnie. If I don’t answer, she’s going to worry.”

  He waved the gun. “Do it. Make an excuse why you can’t talk and hang up.”

  She answered and when Mark said, “Hey, are you all right? I got this gut feeling and—”

  “Hi Aunt Marnie. Listen, I can’t talk right now. I’ve got a guest I didn’t expect. I’ll have to call you later.”

  “Fuck.” Mark’s voice was soft, but went rough and deep with worry. “Are you all right?”

  “For now. But perhaps not for long.” She tried to keep the tremble out of her tone.

  “Son-of-a-bitch. I’m coming right now. Hold on, you hear? Don’t do anything to antagonize him.”

  “I won’t. Goodbye and see you soon.”

  She cut off the call and repeated herself. “Aunt Marnie is such a worry wart. So you’re the man who sent me those letters?” She smiled widely. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand who you were at first. Why don’t you sit down, and we’ll have some coffee?”

  To her surprise, friendliness had the desired effect. He smiled, and tension eased from his face. He lowered his weapon. “All right.”

  “We can discuss our plans.”

  “Plans?”

  “Well, you seemed upset in the letters. I wanted to know why. I hoped you’d show up and explain, and I could get to know you.”

  Pleasure smoothed his features, rounded the sharpness. “That sounds mighty nice. I knew if I came here you’d understand.”

  “Of course. What…” She cleared her scratchy throat. “How did you get in the house?”

  He shook his head and made a tsking noise. “Your kitchen door is rickety. I kicked it in about an hour ago. I’ve been waiting for you. Looking around the house. Thought if I missed you I could take a memento.”

  “Memento?”

  He smiled, and his very white teeth surprised her. One part of her mind marveled at the amazement. Just because this guy was a crayon short of a box didn’t mean he would have sharp, grungy teeth.

  “A bra maybe. Panties. Something I could smell. I’ll bet you smell real good.”

  Her stomach revolted, but she held back a reflexive gag.

  She took note of the twang in his voice. “Are you from the south, Davis? May I call you Davis?”

  He smiled widely. “Yeah. Please. I hate it when people call me Coker. Makes me sound like some damned druggie or something. I’m from Texas originally…grew up there. Moved to Bangor when I was twelve. So I lost a lot of that accent.” He pointed his finger at her. “So don’t call me Coker.”

  She nodded and frowned purposefully. “I can see how that would hurt. I mean if people called you names.”

  His muscles, his entire body, seemed to relax. “It did. People are always hurting me.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He stared at her for a solid minute, the silence stretching. Fear continued to boil inside her.

  “Give me the phone,” he said.

  She almost asked him why, but some internal barometer appeared to guide her, and she didn’t think he’d like the question. She walked slowly toward him and the closer she came to him, the higher the tension rose. She held her hand out, and he caught her wrist.

  Flinching, she dropped the phone and it fell to the floor.

  He released her wrist and picked up the phone. He slid it into his pants pocket without a word. “Make us that coffee, and I’ll explain everything to you.”

  Relieved he hadn’t gone ballistic because she dropped the phone, she took the steps necessary to pass by him. She hated being this close, and as he followed her into the kitchen she flipped on the light. She allowed her purse to slide off her shoulder onto a chair at the small table. Juliet regulated her breathing and tried to slow it down as she prepared and started the coffeemaker. Panic hadn’t taken over, but it wanted to. Her pulse throbbed, her heartbeat picking up a nervous pace. Mark knows I’m in trouble. He’ll come. He’ll come for me. All she had to do was keep her head on straight and the nut job occupied until Mark arrived. A terrifying idea popped to mind and threatened to derail her. What if Mark tried to call again? If Davis saw Mark was calling…oh God. All the spit in her mouth threatened to dry up. She had to swallow hard a couple of times to speak.

  As the coffeemaker gurgled, she asked, “Would you like cookies to go with coffee? I’ve got chocolate chip.”

  His eyes lit up, even behind those thick lenses. Coldness left his expression. “Homemade?”

  She injected sincere regret into her voice. “Store bought. I’m not a very good baker.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment touched the words, but he shrugged and sat at the table. “Most women aren’t.”

  She kept that conversation going. “Your girlfriend or wife isn’t a good baker?”

  He looked insulted. “Not married.”

  “Your mother?”

  He sighed. “My mother was a bitch. The stereotype. She beat the shit out of me.”

  “I’m sorry. No child should have to go through that.”

  He tilted his head to the side. “In fact, you look a lot like her. Except for that weird hair.”

  She stiffened, her heartbeat starting a new gallop.

  Before she could think of a way to respond, he said, “Look, I don’t have a girlfriend, a sister or a mother. Do you think I’d be here with you if I did?”

  Afraid she’d started too much heat, she kept her voice modulated and steady. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

  He snorted but didn’t speak, those silver-dollar eyes penetrating once more. The coffeemaker sputtered and the beeper went off. The warm scent of liquid java did nothing to soothe her. She turned to the cabinets and retrieved two mugs. Her hand shook as she poured.

  She held up one mug. “Cream or sugar?”

  “Both. Three teaspoons of sugar.”

  She complied, and when she walked toward him with the mug, she tried not to cringe. Inside it didn’t matter. Inside she trembled. Before he could reach for the mug and possibly touch her, she placed it on the table in front of him and escaped back behind the kitchen counter. She didn’t even taste her coffee.

  “You were going to tell me about the fires and the letters,” she said.

  “I will. Sit right here next to me.” He knocked her purse off the chair.

  She hesitated.

  “Come on.” He smiled. “You afraid of me or something?”

  How to answer that? “Of course not. How could I be
afraid of a man who cares about me as much as you do?”

  His expression darkened. “Then why are you with that other man when you know you want to be with me?”

  “I…”

  “Sit down.” He gestured at the chair. “I won’t tell you twice.”

  The icy quality in his voice told her he meant every word. She left her coffee on the counter and sank slowly into the chair. Their feet almost touched. He held the weapon in his left hand while his forearm lay on the table.

  He reached for the coffee and took a swig. “Hmm. Good coffee.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now.” His mug thumped against the tabletop. “Why are you with that man?”

  “I don’t…I’m not with him.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “He’s just a friend.”

  Once more he tilted his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m going to kill him. Even if you didn’t like him I’d have to kill him.”

  Her heart thumped with building anxiety. “Davis, I don’t know much about you. How long have you been in Buckleport?”

  “Four months. Since I got out of prison. I’m from Bangor.”

  “Oh. What were you in prison for?”

  “Arson. I set a fire there.”

  Her skin prickled. “How many fires?”

  “One. Well, one where I was caught. They didn’t catch me at first, even though I set more fires other places. I didn’t fit their damned profiles of an arsonist. My car dealership was failing, so I tried to burn it for the insurance. That made them think it was the only fire I’d started. Stupid pricks.” He snorted. “I wanted to finish my work, so when I got out of prison and all hell broke loose after that damned volcano…” He drifted off with a smile. “I wanted to make it worse. I wanted the fire of the lava here.”