Dark and Twisted Reads: All the Pretty GirlsA Perfect EvilBone Cold (A Taylor Jackson Novel)

by J. T. Ellison

  Gooseflesh crawled up her arms. She shook the sensation off and faced him, cheeks on fire. “Are you trying to scare me?”

  “Yes. Because people who are scared are careful.”

  For a single moment, she couldn’t find her voice. Her thoughts flooded with the things she would say if she could speak. And with memories. Ones she wished she could forget. Ones of a trusting thirteen-year-old girl and an innocent six-year-old boy.

  “Sometimes being careful means shit,” she said softly, voice shaking. “Sometimes being a target has nothing to do with anything but being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m fine, Detective Malone. Leave me alone.”

  She turned and walked away, dodging two-stepping couples, earning a number of curious—and annoyed—glances. He didn’t do as she requested, however, and caught up with her at the edge of the dance floor.

  Hand to her elbow, he turned her to face him. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

  “Well, you did. Now, for the second time, leave me alone.”

  She broke free of his grasp and crossed to Dalton. “I’m going home. Please hand me my purse.”

  “Anna?” He shifted his gaze to Malone, expression confused. “I don’t understand. What’s wro—”

  “I have this effect on women,” Malone said. “Big feet, big mouth. The curse of the Malone clan.”

  Anna didn’t smile. She held her hand out. “My purse, Dalton. And jacket. Please.”

  Dalton handed it to her. “I’ll grab Bill and we’ll all go.”

  “No need. You to stay and have fun.” She bent and kissed his cheek. “Tell Bill I said good-night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Dalton hesitated and once more Malone stepped in. “Don’t worry, I’ll take her home. Just give me a minute to let my partner know what’s going on.”

  She looked disbelievingly at him. “No, you won’t take me home. This is good-night.”

  She walked away. He followed her. “I know you’re angry at me, but don’t be stupid. Women are dying.”

  She wouldn’t be afraid. She wouldn’t allow him to make her afraid. The French Quarter was her home. She had dozens of friends who lived between the bar and her apartment building. Because of her past, there were already too many areas of her life where she harbored fear. But not here. Here she felt safe.

  “Look, Detective, I relieve you of all responsibility for my safety. In fact, I insist. Good night.”

  She marched toward the bar’s front entrance, Malone on her heels.

  “Let me call you a cab.”

  “No.”

  “Anna, this is no joking matter. There’s a killer out there.”

  “And a rapist and crook and a…a kidnapper.” She fought for an even breath. “But I can’t live in fear. This is my home. I live a dozen blocks from here. Between here and there are the residences of several friends, ones I could call on in case of emergency. In addition, I’ve walked through the Quarter alone hundreds of times, never with any problem—” She could see by his set features that her argument was falling on deaf ears.

  She tried another tack. “Fine. All right, I give up.” She sighed with feigned exasperation. “Walk me home if it’ll help you sleep. Go tell your partner, I’ll wait here.” She frowned. “Just don’t take too long. I’m liable to take off.”

  He looked relieved. “Great. I’ll be right back.” He started off, then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Promise you won’t bolt?”

  She held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  The moment he disappeared into the crowd, she turned and ducked out the door. She smiled at her own ingenuity, only feeling the tiniest prickle of guilt at having tricked him. After all, he was the one who had forced his company on her.

  Besides, she had never been a Scout.

  Anna walked quickly, certain that the moment Malone discovered her gone, he would try to catch up with her. She frowned. What a pushy, overbearing man. No doubt that obstinate and dogged determination made him a good cop. It also made him annoying as hell.

  She hugged her leather jacket tighter around her, cold without Dalton and Bill’s company. The French Quarter streets—their sounds, sights and smells—were familiar. Comfortable.

  Usually. But not tonight. It had rained while she had been in Tipitina’s, one of those cold, drenching downpours that sent all but the hardiest—and most fool-hardy—in for the night. The deserted sidewalks were glassy and slick; the dampness seeming to seep through the soles of her shoes, chilling her.

  She turned onto Jackson Square. The storefronts around the Square were dark, closed up tight for the night. She glanced at her watch, noting that it was after one already, much later than she had thought.

  Two women were dead. Both redheads. Both killed after a night out clubbing with friends.

  Anna muttered an oath and hugged herself tighter. Damn Detective Malone for frightening her. Damn him for forcing himself into her evening and ruining it. She was fine. Safe and in no danger at all.

  Still, her thoughts turned to those two women. She had read about them in the Times-Picayune. The newspaper hadn’t mentioned the color of their hair. It hadn’t made a point of the fact that the two had been out dancing the night of their deaths.

  It had made a point of how they had died.

  Raped. Then suffocated.

  Anna shivered. Suddenly, the silence seemed forced. The deserted streets unnatural. The work of movie magic. Her low-heeled mules made a soft slapping sound with each step, a far cry from the heavier footfalls behind her.

  Behind her.

  Anna’s heart skipped a beat. She scolded herself for her overactive imagination. She cursed Quentin Malone for planting the seed of terror in her brain.

  She increased her pace anyway, anxious to get home.

  The pace of the footfalls behind her increased as well.

  She stopped. Silence surrounded her. Heart hammering, she forced herself to peek over her shoulder. The sidewalk behind her appeared deserted. She moved her gaze. The shadows around the Square and the shops’ doorways were dark and deep. Threatening.

  A squeak of terror rose in her throat and she swallowed it, struggling to get a grip on herself. On her imagination. She began to walk, at a comfortable pace at first, then faster, acutely aware of the increasing speed of the footfalls behind her.

  Two women were dead. Both redheads.

  Truly frightened now, she broke into a run. She cut through the back of the Square, past the cathedral, its hulking shadow spilling across the sidewalk before her. She ducked onto St. Ann, then Royal, heading for the residential area of the French Quarter.

  Still he followed.

  Her slip-on shoes slowed her. She kicked them off, stumbling as she did, crying out as something sharp bit into the tender underside of her foot. Her breath came in short, heavy gasps. Her heart thundered. The gasping and pounding filled her head and she struggled to hear past them but couldn’t.

  She was almost home. Only four more blocks. To her left lay a narrow side street, one that ran between the rear of two rows of buildings. A shortcut home. Taking it would slice her trip in half. She had done it a thousand times.

  Without pausing for further thought, she darted down the street. The darkness closed in on her as she careened ahead, all her energy focused on her forward movement.

  From behind her came the sound of a tin can skittering across the pavement.

  He had found her.

  Now, she was alone with him. Dear heaven. Instead of losing her shadow, she had virtually lured him into what amounted to an alley.

  Fear rose like bile from the pit of her stomach, gagging her. Stealing all rational thought. She plunged forward, stumbling again. Again losing precious seconds. In her mind’s eye, she could see him on her heels, gaining on her, arms out.

  The bogeyman had emerged from his hiding place in the shadows.

  The end of the alley in sight now, she bolted for it.

  And ran smack-dab into Quentin
Malone. His arms went around her and she cried out in relief and clung to him, all but sobbing.

  He searched her gaze, the amusement she had always seen in his gone. “My God, Anna, what’s wrong?”

  She fought to find the breath to speak. “Follow…someone was…”

  He drew away from her. “Someone was following you? Where?”

  “There.” She pointed down the side street. “And before.”

  “Stay here. Let me take a loo—”

  “No! Don’t leave me.”

  “Anna, I have to.” He set her away from him. “You’re safe here, stand in the light. I’ll be right back.”

  She did as he suggested and stood under the streetlight, hugging herself, unable to stop her teeth from chattering—though not from the cold night air, from another, much more frightening kind of chill.

  Malone returned after a couple minutes, though to Anna it seemed an eternity. “Alley’s empty,” he said without preamble. “I didn’t see anything that looked out of the ordinary. Are you certain someone was following you?”

  “Yes.” She hugged herself tighter. “I heard…him.”

  “Go on.”

  “Because it was so quiet, I…I noticed his footsteps.”

  “When did you first become aware of them?”

  “Just after I…left Tips.”

  He looked at her long and evenly, as if weighing her every word, every nuance of her voice. With a small nod, he shifted his gaze. “I’ll walk you the rest of the way home.”

  This time she didn’t argue, but instead fell into step beside him, acknowledging to herself that she had never been more grateful for anyone’s company in her life.

  “Your teeth are chattering.”

  “I’m cold. It’s the bare feet.”

  He lowered his gaze. And made a sound of surprise. “You’re not wearing any shoes.”

  “I kicked them off…somewhere. Back there.”

  “I’ll find them.”

  “No. Forget them. I just…I want to go home.”

  He hesitated, frowning. “I could carry you.”

  “No, please…it’s not necessary. Really.”

  He looked like he wanted to argue with her, but didn’t. Instead he glanced down at her, then ahead again. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  She did, beginning with her noticing the rain-slicked sidewalks and ending with landing in his arms.

  “Are you certain you were followed into the alley?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Yes. As I neared the end of the alleyway there was a clattering sound behind me, like a tin can being kicked out of the way.”

  “But you didn’t hear the footsteps.”

  She shook her head. “I was running and between my pounding heart and ragged breathing, I couldn’t hear anything else.”

  He hesitated a moment, as if considering different scenarios. “Could it have been me you heard behind you?”

  She stopped and looked at him. “Excuse me?”

  “When I realized you’d bolted from Tipitina’s, I asked your friend Dalton the route you would have taken home and headed out. Did you take St. Peter to St. Ann?” She nodded. “Maybe until you darted down the alley, the footfalls you heard were mine.”

  “What about the tin can?”

  “A cat digging through a Dumpster.”

  They began walking again. Had she allowed Malone’s comments to get to her? Had her imagination run so far and so fast that she had literally fabricated the whole incident?

  “I don’t know,” she murmured. “I was so frightened and it’s not like me to…to go off the deep end that way.”

  Except at night. When the nightmares visited. When Kurt came to call.

  “Is that your building?” he asked, indicating the one just ahead.

  She said that it was, then winced as she stepped on something sharp. “Ouch. Wait.”

  She grabbed his arm for support, then looked at the bottom of her foot. It was bleeding. She lifted her eyes to his, light-headed. “It must have been glass. A…big piece.”

  “Let me take a look.”

  He did, muttered an oath and lifted her into his arms. She squealed, surprised. “Malone! Put me down!”

  “Not a chance.” He closed the remaining distance to her building. “I should have done this two blocks ago.”

  “I feel silly. What if someone sees this?”

  “They’ll think we’re newlyweds. Besides, it’s not every day I get to help a damsel in distress.”

  “But you’re a cop.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, but my specialty is dead people. You got a key for this place?”

  She rummaged in her purse for her key ring and handed it to him. “The round one’s for the courtyard gate, the square for my apartment.”

  Within minutes she was sitting on the edge of her bathtub, her foot on a towel in Malone’s lap. He’d already called the Eighth District Station, explained what had happened and asked them to send a couple of uniforms to check out the scene. He also requested that they ask a few question at Tips.

  Now his attention was focused on the bottom of her foot. “Yup,” he murmured, “it’s glass. Looks like it was once part of an Abita Beer bottle. That’s the French Quarter for you.”

  She felt the blood drain from her face. “Do you think I need…stitches?”

  Her voice shook and he looked at her in concern. “Please tell me you’re not going to pass out.”

  “I’ll try not to.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “I really don’t do well with blood. Ever since—” She sucked in a deep, fortifying breath. “You know.”

  “I can guess.” He stood, went to the sink and soaked a washcloth, then returned and gently rinsed her foot. His touch gentle, he probed the wound. “Doesn’t look too deep. I think you can do without a trip to the emergency room.”

  She let out a pent-up breath, one she hadn’t even realized she was holding. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He got to his feet and went to the medicine cabinet. “I need antiseptic, sterile gauze, tape and tweezers. Have any of those things?”

  She directed him and within moments he was performing his brand of bathroom surgery on her. “Okay, doll,” he murmured, “bite on a nail, this might sting.”

  He came at her with the tweezers. Anna squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath, waiting for the sting. It came and a whimper escaped her clenched teeth.

  “Got it. Want to see? It’s a nice-size chunk.”

  “God, no.” She averted her head, just to insure she didn’t peek by accident. “I’d faint for sure.”

  “Thanks for the warning. Now hold on, here comes the bad part.”

  He wasn’t joking. She came off her seat as he flushed the wound with antiseptic. It burned like hellfire. “Hey, go easy on that stuff!”

  “Sorry, babe. Worst is over, I promise.”

  He grinned up at her, expression boyish, and her heart did this funny little thing—like a flip-flop or side step. She assured herself that the sensation was relief. Not awareness. Not attraction. Not one of those irrational sexual things that could get a girl in a world of trouble.

  “You make a pretty good doctor,” she said, forcing lightness into her tone. “Maybe you missed your calling?”

  Malone laughed. “Hardly. I had enough trouble getting through the schooling I needed to make detective first grade.” He quickly and deftly wrapped and taped her foot. “You have any ibuprofen?”

  “In the cabinet.”

  He retrieved the bottle and shook out a couple of the blue caplets, bringing them to her with a glass of water. “You’ll be sore for a while,” he said as she took the caplets, then washed them down with the water. “I’d suggest forgoing Tipitina’s for now.”

  “Maybe forever.” She eased to her feet, wincing as she put pressure on the injured one. “My dancing days are over.”

  “Just take a cab next time, cher. Or bring a date.”

  “I tried that,” she murmur
ed, taking a cautious step toward the doorway. “He didn’t show.”

  “I can’t say I’m unhappy about that.” He smiled at her. “It’s not often I get to play doctor.”

  Her heart did that jumpy thing again. Only this time she couldn’t put it off to anything but what it was. Pure animal attraction. She cocked an eyebrow. “Why do I find that hard to believe?”

  “Because you’re a cynic?”

  “Yeah, right. Come on, I’ll walk you to the door.”

  “Actually, I suggest you stay off your feet.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “If you’d like, I could tuck you into bed?”

  Would she like him to? Yes. Would it be wise? Lord, no. Quentin Malone anywhere near her bed was definitely not a good idea. The man oozed more charm than a snake-oil salesman.

  “I don’t think so,” she replied. “But that was a good try.”

  “Glad you think so. I’ll try again.”

  She ignored that—and the realization that she hoped he would.

  They reached her door. “Thanks for everything, Malone. I’m really…I’m grateful.”

  “NOPD, at your service.”

  “Tonight was way above and beyond the call of duty,” she murmured, opening the door. “The truth is…you might have saved…without you, who knows what would have happened.”

  “I’m going to follow up on this, Anna. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.” He paused at the door. “By the way, I looked into Jaye Arcenaux’s foster parents for you.”

  Anna’s mouth went dry. “And?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary materialized. In fact the Clausens seem about as true blue, apple pie as they come.”

  A lump formed in her throat. A part of her felt relief, another despair. “Are you sure?”

  “As certain as I can be. They’ve been foster parents to more than a dozen kids. I checked around, talked to a few of their former kids. They had nothing but good things to say about the couple, and according to Social Services’ records, most of their fosters turned out okay.”

  “Any of them run away?”

  “I checked that, too, Anna. Yeah. And the ones who ran away turned up later. Alive and well.” His expression turned sympathetic. “It looks like your friend really did run away. And if she did, my bet is she’ll turn up sometime. They usually do.”