“I know how you feel,” Dakota said, trying to comfort her. “It was hard for me, too, at first. Seeing people like that, and wanting so much to help them. But we are helping. Just for the time they’re here, we are making a difference in their lives.”
“Who was he?” Lucy’s voice was tight. “Do you know?”
“That’s odd, isn’t it? He must be one of those transients I was telling you about. I’ve never seen him around here before.”
With a sigh, Dakota gazed out the front window, out at the people and shadows mingling together in the dusk.
“You were so kind to him, Lucy. He’ll probably never forget you.”
24
Her touch still clung to him.
He could still feel the pressure of her hand in his ... the softness of her skin . . . the length and slender shape of every finger.
Her warmth had flowed into him, a surge of emotions that had shocked each one of his senses into wonder.
Her concern and compassion . . . her undisguised pity . . .
And the sorrowful understanding in her eyes.
It had left him stunned and seriously shaken, a wound within the nether regions of his soul, for seldom in his lifetime had he ever known understanding.
Understanding made one vulnerable.
A lesson he’d learned well, and long ago.
So now he paced, gripped by a strange, trembling restlessness, his skin too tight, his face transforming into another. He paced like an animal in a cage, stopping only long enough to gaze out through the darkness—the deep, deceptive darkness that was his only friend.
This was his domain, as it had always been, as it would always be.
This kingdom of the night, as black and impenetrable as his soul.
“Damn her.”
How could his plan have gone so completely awry?
“Damn her!”
What had he expected? Another ruse to get close to her, to hide behind the essence of his nature and see himself reflected in her eyes.
And for a single moment, he had watched her hovering there on the brink of disgust and aversion, startled by his ugliness and trying not to show it, drowning in the poison of his stare.
But then, without warning, she’d changed.
He had not expected it—not even seen it coming—when suddenly he’d felt it. Felt it like warm, soothing waves; like gentle arms reaching out to take him in, into a place of comfort and acceptance. He felt it a thousand times stronger than anything he’d felt from her before.
He had been so fascinated, so dismayed, he’d simply stood frozen there in place and squeezed her hand.
It had been all he could do not to moan out loud.
Moan with the desire for her, the need for her, the wild and desperate hunger for her.
For he had felt her longing, as well.
Her ache as strong as his, as deep and unfulfilled, the frantic throbbing of her pulse, and their connection so strong, so overwhelming, it had sucked his breath away . . .
Distracted his instincts . . . driven him mad.
Since he’d left the soup kitchen, he’d thought of nothing else.
He had no choice but to go to her.
Force her if he had to, take her now if he had to—he would not wait for willingness or surrender or the right and perfect time.
But even as he crouched upon her balcony, where he’d spent so many nights before, he knew that he must hold himself in check. Remain anonymous and watchful. Infinitely patient. Disguised as whomever she needed him to be.
Like fine gray mist, he slipped inside her room.
Gazed upon her silently as she slept.
Damn her for making him feel!
For touching him like that . . . with her hand and with her heart!
For making him remember another life in another time, times of understanding . . . times of sharing love . . .
No, he would not feel—he would not remember!
He would feed.
And he would kill.
And he would survive.
For these were the only things that mattered to him now.
The only things he loved and understood.
25
Lucy still couldn’t understand what had happened.
Everything had been so normal, everything had been going so well—spending the afternoon with Dakota, and meeting the people at the soup kitchen, and volunteering for something that really mattered.
And then that stranger had come in.
That pathetic young man with the festering sores and the hunger in his very old eyes.
She hadn’t been able to stop herself.
She’d reached out her hand and she’d touched him, and slowly she’d begun to recognize something.
Something that had touched her before.
Impossible.
Absolutely impossible.
But now she was lying in bed and thinking back on the whole unsettling experience, trying to tell herself it was only one of those blackouts Dr. Fielding had warned her about, one of those memory lapses.
After all . . . hadn’t she lost fifteen whole minutes?
Fifteen minutes unaccounted for, while the stranger had sat down at a table and eaten his meal and left again by the front door?
Of course it had been just memory loss.
How else could she ever explain it?
Yet a doubt still persisted in the back of her mind . . . a nagging doubt and a lingering nightmare . . .
A nightmare swift and needle-sharp—stabbing like fire, piercing hot through my skin, sinking deep through my flesh, clamping down and holding on, suspended there . . .
Lucy turned restlessly, unable to sleep.
Shadows pressed around the bed and shrouded her in black.
Suspended there on boiling waves of panic and burning pleasure . . .
The room seemed to be holding its breath as her fingertips stroked the darkness.
Burning pleasure . . . waves rushing over me . . . through me . . .
Once again Lucy pictured the stranger’s face.
She pulled the covers over her head and hid beneath them till morning.
26
He had felt her fingertips caressing his cheek . . . gliding over his throat . . . down the front of his chest.
She hadn’t even known what she’d done.
Hadn’t even realized how close he’d been standing, only inches away from her bed.
But now it was one stroke past midnight.
He’d been watching the hands of the clock on her nightstand, the minutes creeping by like hours, the hours stretching out like the endless decades of his life.
Lucy’s restlessness was nothing, compared to his own.
His growing frustration, his need to be filled.
There was only one thing that could satisfy him.
And he would be no gentleman tonight.
He ran through the woods and on through the town, his midnight senses keen and alert, the darkness flowing over him like wind.
It was in the park where he finally caught the girl’s scent.
Not virginal blood, but deliciously seasoned all the same.
She was small and well built, athletic and strong, with very short hair, like a boy’s. She had books under one arm and she smelled of sweet powder, strained peaches, and soft, fluffy blankets.
She had been babysitting.
And now she was on her way home.
He trailed her over a footbridge, then slunk out of sight behind the trees and the bushes, just one more shadow among many. He kept pace with her and wondered how long it would be until she sensed she was being followed.
Not so long, after all.
Like countless times before, he recognized that first dawning hint of awareness, that first wary glance back over the shoulder, that first startled quickening of the feet.
He always enjoyed that initial shock. That primal instinct of approaching death, innate to every species.
For a while she walked
faster, and so did he.
Then suddenly she stopped and turned to face him.
“Who’s there?” she called in a quivering voice, trying so hard to be brave. “I know you’re there; you’re not scaring me.”
And so he let her see him.
He watched her eyes go wide; he smelled her helpless terror. The thrill of the hunt surged through him—that heady anticipation of the kill, that stamina and speed no mortal could ever hope to match.
Just for fun, he gave her a head start.
She screamed, but no one heard.
And for one desperate minute of her tragically young life, he let her think she might actually get away.
But he had no patience for the chase tonight.
And he was upon her so quickly, she didn’t even struggle.
Afterward he lay there on the cold, wet ground, feeling empty and disappointed . . . gorged but unfulfilled.
The dead girl’s eyes stared up at him. There was no malice there, no accusation—but rather a look of blank and sad surprise.
He took her to the footbridge that spanned the concrete drainage ditch.
With one swift motion he broke her neck for good measure, then tossed her over the railing.
New power for every life . . .
A new century for every soul.
With a bitter smile, he went back into the night . . . as silently and stealthily as he had come.
27
“You can’t do this, Matt,” Lucy said. “There’s got to be another way. You can’t just put her in some nursing home.”
Startled, Matt glanced up from his desk. Lucy was standing rigidly in the doorway of the office, looking close to tears.
“Do we have an appointment?” Hurriedly he pretended to search through his calendar. Lucy was not amused.
“Matt, this is serious. How could you do such a terrible thing?”
“Lucy, I’m not doing it. And who told you about it?”
“Dakota heard some people talking in the bookstore last night. Some of Byron’s neighbors, I guess.”
Matt leaned back in his chair. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin and slowly shook his head.
“Mrs. Dempsey can’t stay forever, and we can’t expect her to. It was always understood that the arrangement was temporary.”
“Yes,” Lucy reminded him. “Till you could find someone else. But you haven’t found anyone else yet.”
“And it doesn’t look like we’re going to. Look, I’m as sorry about it as you are, Lucy, but we don’t have a choice. Even with the nurse and with neighbors being kind enough to drop in, Byron’s grandmother can’t be alone at night.”
“Then I’ll do it.”
Lifting an eyebrow, Matt stared at her. “What do you mean, you’ll do it?”
“My aunt’s going on a trip to Paris. She’ll be gone at least two weeks and—”
“The woman’s compassion knows no bounds,” he groaned. “Are you serious?”
“She told me yesterday. Some sort of exchange program at the university. And I really don’t want to stay in that house by myself.”
“Well, you shouldn’t. I’m really sorry, Lucy—”
“The thing is,” Lucy interrupted, not feeling up to sympathy at the moment, “do you think Byron’s grandmother would even want me there?”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
“You know why. Maybe she couldn’t even stand to look at me. And I wouldn’t blame her.”
“She’s not like that. She’s very sweet. Even Mrs. Dempsey says so.” Folding his arms behind his head, Matt leaned back even farther. “And if anyone can manage to stay sweet around Mrs. Dempsey, they qualify for sainthood in my opinion.”
“Can you arrange it?” Lucy pleaded, but Matt hedged.
“Lucy . . . are you sure you want to do this for the right reasons?”
“I have good reasons.”
“Yeah, but . . . maybe you’re thinking more about how bad you feel, than about how bad Mrs. Wetherly feels.” Pausing, he added, “It won’t work as penance, you know.”
Lucy’s voice lowered. “But won’t my being there help both of us?”
For a long moment Matt said nothing. Then finally he gave a deep sigh.
“And I suppose you want me to talk to your aunt about it, too?”
“Would you? If anyone can convince her, you can.”
“Thanks. I think.” Matt’s smile was dubious. “There’s the bell. You better get to class.”
But Lucy didn’t move. “Are you going to the vigil tonight?”
“Actually, I’ve been asked to say a few words. What about you?”
“I’m coming with Irene.”
There was another lengthy hesitation before he spoke. “You think you’re up to this?”
“Do I really have a choice?”
With a grim expression she turned to leave, then promptly faced him again.
“Matt?”
“Yes?”
“That medallion you gave me? You never told me anything about—”
“Bell.” He pointed sternly toward the hallway. “Late. Go.”
Lucy made it to homeroom just in time. Sliding into her seat, she rested one cheek on her pile of books and gazed out the window as the morning’s announcements came over the intercom.
In the distance she could see a large group heading off toward the athletic field—coaches, cheerleaders, band members, even some football players, it looked like. And though they were too far away to distinguish each face individually, it was obvious they were all in high spirits—laughing, jostling, joking around.
Lucy’s heart melted in relief.
Everyone was happy. Everything was fine. It was Thursday and no one had died . . .
“And no one’s going to die. And whatever I saw in my mind was a mistake. And I’m not turning into Katherine.”
But she realized she was whispering to herself, and that her hands were clamped tightly over her ears, trying to drown out another voice—a sad, empty voice whispering far back in the darkness of her mind . . .
Everything’s not fine, Lucy . . .
And it’s only morning.
The candlelight vigil was scheduled for seven-thirty.
As Lucy let herself into the house that afternoon, it was obvious Irene wasn’t there yet. No messages on the answering machine. No notes beside the phone.
She hoped Irene remembered.
How would it look if Angela’s own mother didn’t attend the service?
Lucy wished she could miss it herself. She dreaded the emotional impact of the ceremony—it had been looming over her like a dark cloud all day. Now she just wanted to get it over with.
Peeling off her coat and gloves, she threw them over the bannister and went up to her room. She was dressed and ready by six o’clock. Dressed for the weather and feeling edgy because Irene still wasn’t home.
Darkness had already fallen, and as lights began coming on throughout the house, Lucy went downstairs to turn on more.
By seven, she was really getting worried. Pacing around the kitchen, she nearly jumped out of her skin when the telephone rang. She hesitated, suddenly afraid to pick it up, then heard Irene’s voice on the machine.
“Lucy, are you there? I’m running late. Just go on without me, and I’ll meet you at the school.”
Relieved, Lucy started back to her room to grab another sweater.
But the doorbell stopped her halfway.
She hurried down again, then looked nervously out through the peephole. Within the distorted angle of the lens, she could see a tall figure standing on the porch, his back to her, a clipboard dangling from one hand.
Cautiously, Lucy cracked open the front door.
“Special delivery,” the man announced. But he didn’t turn around, and Lucy stood there on the threshold, watching him in wary surprise.
“It’s kind of late,” she said. “What kind of delivery?”
“Are you Lucy Dennison?”
Hesitating,
Lucy nodded. “Yes, that’s me.”
“Then sign here.”
She saw him turn around. Saw his pale sharp features and his deep-set eyes as he fixed her with a steady gaze. Both his truck and his uniform were black, but neither of them were printed with a name.
“What is it?” Lucy’s voice tightened. “Who’s it from?”
His gaze lingered a moment longer. “Well,” he said at last, “I imagine that’s part of the surprise.” He thrust a clipboard at her. It had a pen attached to it, and a sheet of paper that was blank. “Just sign your name. I have other appointments to keep.”
Again Lucy hesitated. Then she quickly scribbled her name.
“But what delivery company are you with?” she persisted.
“I told you. A special one.”
Before she could ask anything more, the man turned and walked off. Lucy watched him climb into his truck and drive away from the house.
Then she looked down at the box.
It was fairly large—and seemed to weigh a ton. When Lucy couldn’t lift it, she finally managed to drag it into the hall, then locked the door and stood there, frowning down at the package.
Who would be sending her a special delivery?
And why?
She chewed anxiously on a fingernail. She stood and tapped her foot, trying to decide what to do.
She didn’t have time for packages right now; she had to get to the vigil. She had to meet Irene. She had to be brave and strong.
She glanced at her watch.
If she hurried, she’d still have time to open the box. It wouldn’t take that long to drive over to the high school, and since this thing was a special delivery, then it must be something important.
Yet still she stood and stared at it.
Watching as if something might suddenly unwrap itself and jump out at her.
She was being silly—paranoid—but her curiosity was stronger.
Retrieving some scissors from the kitchen, she cut away the mailing tape and lifted the cardboard flaps on top.
It was wrapped very tight, very thickly.
Whatever it was, it had been well protected and packed with great care.
Lucy got a knife from the kitchen drawer. With painstaking caution, she began to work the heavy padding loose.
Rest In Peace Page 14