Cold Touch

by Leslie Parrish

  She’d once been deathly afraid of spiders. That had been before she’d known what real fear was. Now, she’d grab them with her bare hands if she thought it could help her escape. Nor did she hesitate at the thought of running through the slimy muck beneath those ancient bent trees. The area was probably filled with gators and snakes, yet if she had a chance, she’d take it.

  But she was out of chances, and all three of them knew it.

  Her captor said something, but she couldn’t hear it. Bullfrogs croaked so loudly she couldn’t have heard her own whimpers, and she couldn’t stop thinking how strange the air tasted. Musty and damp, rich with muck and the decay of rotting limbs and dead animals and turned earth. And blood.

  She didn’t want her last breath to be of this air. Just as she didn’t want her attacker’s face to be the last one she ever saw on this earth.

  It won’t be. The boy’s will.

  Jack. She shifted her eyes, seeing him watching from a few feet away, wondering if he felt her hatred. Her rage.

  He flinched.

  Yes. He felt it. Good.

  “Get over there. I’m gonna need you to help hold’er,” the man snapped.

  Jack stared at her, hesitated. Then, when the man barked something else, leapt to do his bidding. All the while, Olivia dangled from the roots of her gripped hair, her back pressed against the massive body that reeked of sweat and filth.

  He dragged her to the rain barrel, a huge, old-fashioned one that stood as tall as her waist. Bugs and mosquitoes rose from the murk, not liking to be disturbed. A thin coat of slime and algae gleamed green against the brackish water, and it stunk the way a standing pond did in high summer.

  She couldn’t help it, instinct made her squirm, try to kick. He hissed something in her hair, reminding her he’d rape her if she didn’t quit, but she couldn’t make herself stop. Couldn’t submit to that dark, black pool that looked like the opening to a cave that led straight to hell.

  “Hold her!” he barked, and she felt smaller hands grab her arm.

  She tried to yank away, more repulsed by his touch than she was by the man’s. Because he had betrayed her. Utterly, completely betrayed her.

  But there was no time to think of that, no time to again accuse him with her eyes, or plead or beg or scream. Because that powerful hand was pushing her head down . . . down . . . until she saw the reflection of her own eyes shining back at her from the moonlit surface.

  She panicked, sucked in a breath to scream. Thinking better of it, she instead clamped her mouth shut to conserve the air.

  Then she was in it.

  Warm and thick, viscous, not like water, more like blood. Arching her back, she tries to lift her head, her body instinctively striving to stay alive. The grip remains merciless in her hair, and her head stays beneath the surface, no matter how much she twists and splashes.

  She holds her breath. Oh, how she holds it.

  Unable to help it, she opens her terrified eyes, sees nothing but the black. Bubbles escape her closed lips. She clenches her mouth tighter, wriggling, jerking. Her lungs ache, her heart races, her blood surges through her veins as if knowing it’s making its last delivery of oxygen to her starving organs.

  Her muscles clench, then cramp painfully. In the blackness before her eyes, she suddenly sees her father’s face. Her mother’s. Her sister’s.

  The boy’s.

  Such anger. Such pain. Hot fire in her chest. The urge to open her mouth and suck in her own destruction is strong, relentless.

  She has heard drowning is a peaceful death.

  That is a lie.

  Her body rebels until her chest cavity feels on the verge of implosion. Her mouth opens, her lungs clench, working independently of her mind, groping, demanding what they need.

  She tries, struggles to hold on to that last breath, which has long since been robbed of its life-sustaining oxygen. Her cells begin to die. The images in her mind fade. Her lips part, more bubbles as the dead air leaks from her lungs.

  At last, helpless against millions of years of evolution, she inhales.

  Oh, God, the agony! Unlike anything she’s ever imagined.

  Her heart continues to beat, though her mouth and lungs are filled with filthy water. She hears her pulse in her head: ker-thunk, ker-thunk, ker-thunk.

  Slowing. Weak. Kerrrr-thuuuunk. Kerrrrr—

  Then nothing. Silence. The heartbeat is gone.

  And soon, so is she.

  Present day, Friday, 7:25 p.m.

  “You died?”

  Gabe didn’t think his body could get any more tense, but right now he felt ready to snap in half. Shock rolled through him, horror making his breath slow, as hers had done while she relived the nightmare.

  She hadn’t just died. She had been murdered. A lovely, innocent fifteen-year-old girl, brutally, ruthlessly, painfully murdered.

  Throughout Olivia’s recitation, during which she had closed her eyes and verbalized some awful picture playing in her mind, he’d found himself leaning farther forward in his seat, his elbows gouged into his knees, his hands clasped together. Shocked into silence, he had been aware of nothing but her voice. He hadn’t even really been thinking, just watching and listening as Olivia uncovered her long-buried memories, giving them life, giving them power.

  That power abused her. He could see it in the paleness of her face, the way her mouth trembled and her nails dug into her own flesh as she tightened her arms around her middle.

  “Oh, yes,” she finally replied in a voice that quivered almost as much as her lips did. She gazed at him with watery green eyes. “I was dead for a little over two minutes.”

  “Lord in heaven,” he muttered, stunned out of the immobility the horrifying story had brought on him. He didn’t think about it, didn’t wonder what he was doing or if he should do it. Instead, he found himself launching out of his seat, then dropping to his knees in front of hers. Grabbing her icy-cold hands, he wrapped them in his, watching shivers rack her slim body.

  As much as he felt connected to her, given the personal, intimate secrets she’d shared with him today, Gabe had no idea if she lived here alone or if some boyfriend might come storming in at any moment. But he didn’t care. She needed human connection. And he was there to give it to her.

  Dropping her hands, he reached for her, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her up. Then he slid into her chair, bringing her onto his lap. She didn’t protest. Instead, she slid her arms around his neck, dropping her head onto his shoulder and curling into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Hell, maybe it was. The specter of death made every human being long to grab at life, didn’t it? To hold someone, touch a warm body, hear another’s heartbeat, share a breath and acknowledge that, for one more moment, whatever mysteries lay beyond this world had been held at bay.

  But for her, they hadn’t. She’d crossed over that boundary, explored those mysteries and was, to this day, haunted by them.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered against her soft hair, “so damn sorry, Olivia.” He drew small patterns on her back with the tips of his fingers, reminding her she was connected, wanting to impress on her the fact that she was not alone, not still wandering in that darkness.

  They stayed that way for several moments, during which he felt her rapid, shallow breaths slow against his neck. One of his hands was cupped over her shoulder, his thumb brushing the pulse point in her neck, where he could feel her frantic pulse slow.

  She was okay, returning to normal. Whatever terrors tormented her, they had been put back in Pandora’s box, at least for now.

  Good. That’s what he’d wanted. But he realized something: The return of normalcy also made him acknowledge how good she felt pressed against him, curled on his lap. She was small, though not tiny, fitting perfectly against him, her soft curves melting against his harder angles.

  It had been a long while since he’d been so close to a woman, and frankly he didn’t remember it being quite this nice. He wasn’t sure anyo
ne had ever felt as good in his arms as Olivia did.

  That realization brought all kinds of images to mind. Images of her turning around to face him, leaving him free to tangle his hands in her hair and pull her down for a warm, wet kiss. He liked kissing—it was one of his favorite things to do—and he suspected Olivia’s mouth would taste just about perfect.

  He was suddenly terribly aware of her soft breasts pressing against his chest and the curve of her bottom against his thighs. The tender embrace was feeling different. Her breaths were getting choppy again, and he suspected her pulse was speeding up, too. As was his. Whatever this feeling was, it was catching. It leapt between them for a few seconds, and he’d bet her thoughts mirrored his own. This is too soon. She’s a witness. She’s vulnerable right now.

  All of the above, and that meant it was time to let her go, even if it was the last thing he wanted to do. He dropped his hand. She lifted her head. Their eyes met, her expression searching and appreciative. She silently thanked him, and he just as silently said it was okay. Then she rose to her feet and moved to the couch, taking the spot where he’d been sitting.

  Offering him a shaky smile, she finally broke the silence. “I didn’t stay dead, of course.”

  He managed a faint smile, too. “If you did, you’re the most solid ghost I’ve ever seen.”

  One brow went up in challenge. “Have you seen many?”

  “Not a one. You?”

  She shook her head. “That’s my boss’s thing, not mine.” Her smile faded, as if she’d suddenly remembered that her thing was what had brought him here. And they still hadn’t quite gotten to it. Yeah, he understood a lot more about what had happened to her. But how it had changed her, what abilities did she think the experience had given her? No clue.

  “Listen, before we finish this, how about a drink?” she asked, getting up before he’d even responded. “I could use a glass of wine. Are you off-duty, Detective? Can I get you a beer?”

  “My shift’s over; to be honest, I came here off the record. So, yeah, a beer would be great, thanks. And please call me Gabe.” She’d been curled up in his lap five minutes ago, and if she’d stayed there another ten seconds, she probably would have felt his body reacting to that. So, yeah, they oughta be on a first-name basis.

  She didn’t go far, just to a wet bar in a corner. He liked this den area; not only did it have a big screen, the bar and a small refrigerator, but it also had none of that frilly, girly stuff that had marked the rest of the house he’d seen so far. It was a room you could live in, not one you had to tiptoe through to get somewhere else. He liked that the pillows were big and squishy, the pictures on the wall of sunny meadows, not plastic fruit. This room, he suspected, was the one she really lived in. Which made him wonder who lived in the rest of the museum.

  Opening the fridge, she retrieved a beer and a halffull bottle of white wine. She poured herself a drink, then returned and handed him the beer. The tips of their fingers met on the slick, cold glass, and she didn’t let go of the bottle immediately. Such a slight touch, but he felt it way down deep. Every touch seemed a little more important now, though he couldn’t say why. Maybe it was because she’d opened up to him. Maybe it was because he’d held her. Whatever the reason, he was more aware of her than he had been before. Whether that was a good thing or a bad one, though, he just couldn’t say.

  “Thank you,” he finally said.

  She let go, turning away while he twisted the cap off the bottle and took a deep sip. Once she’d sat down, smoothed her skirt and sipped her wine, she nodded once, silently letting him know she was ready to continue whenever he was. He’d done enough pushing for one day, however, and was content to let her take the lead. He hoped they’d already gotten past the worst part but honestly wasn’t entirely sure.

  Though, really, what could be worse than experiencing your own death?

  “Okay, where were we?” she finally murmured.

  “You were about to tell me how Jack saved you.”

  She sucked in a breath, obviously surprised he’d figured that out.

  It hadn’t been hard. “You sounded desperate to know what happened to him earlier today, like you owed him your life. But when you just told me what happened that night, it sounded like you had gone to your grave hating him. So I suspect he’s the one who hauled you out of it.”

  She nodded, cupping her fingers around her glass, staring into the pale liquid. “Yes, he did. I remember taking a breath, inhaling that water. Then blackness. Absolutely nothing.”

  “No bright light or long tunnel?” he asked, not teasing, not one bit.

  She shook her head. “Sorry. If there was, I don’t remember it. Not a thing. The first memory I have after drowning is of being rolled onto my side so I could vomit up a bunch of water, then trying to remind my body how to breathe.”

  “He’d performed CPR?”

  “Don’t ask me how an abused, terrified boy did it, but yes. He brought me back to life.”

  “Where was Collier?”

  Another sip, another long, introspective silence. “Gone. Jack said he’d left to get the ransom money, telling Jack to bury me.”

  He shook his head, having a hard time imagining it. “How long were you . . . ?”

  “As I said, on reflection, I’m sure I was clinically dead for two minutes, ten seconds. I don’t know if my brain waves had actually stopped when Collier pulled me out of the barrel and tossed me to the ground. But my heart had, and he certainly thought I was all the way gone.”

  “Maybe you never . . .”

  “I did,” she said. “Trust me on this. I would have been pronounced dead in any hospital.”

  He didn’t push it.

  “Anyway, Jack revived me. I started to breathe, then clawed at him, screaming how much I hated him.” Her voice broke, this memory seeming worse than the other horrific ones she’d already shared, the final, brutal straw. “Then I looked at his face and saw huge tears rolling down his dirty cheeks.” Her eyes drifted closed but not quick enough to stop a tear of her own from slipping out. That tiny dot of moisture gave testament to a lot of pent-up grief. “He told me he was sorry for suggesting the man drown me, but said he’d seen something on TV about CPR and thought he might be able to do it. It was all he could think to do.”

  Gabe shuddered, not even wanting to calculate all the things that could have gone wrong. “That’s one hell of a risk.”

  She scraped the back of her hand over her cheek casually, pretending she wasn’t catching a tear. “I know. But he thought the odds were better with that than letting Collier cut me up, as he’d intended to.” She said it matter-of-factly and apparently didn’t notice him flinch. “Jack knew I wouldn’t have much time. As soon as he thought I was dead, Jack reminded Collier he had to leave to stake out the drop spot and said he’d take care of getting rid of me. I can’t imagine how hard it was, worrying he might not actually go.”

  But he did. Miraculously, shockingly, the monster had left in time for some poor, brainwashed, abused kid to resuscitate his intended victim.

  She took another sip of her drink, deeper this time, and curled up in her seat, tucking one leg beneath her. “I begged him to come with me. Literally grabbed his hand and tried to drag him. But he wouldn’t. He was terrified.”

  That was, on the surface, hard to grasp. Having worked with some really screwed-up victims, though, he thought he could understand it. The devil you know . . .

  “He said that if he came back and Jack was gone, Collier would know right away he’d helped me escape and would hunt us both down. There was no phone, no buildings anywhere we could see. Even Jack wasn’t sure where we were. By staying, he could cover for me until I’d gotten to safety. Say he’d buried me or whatever.”

  “What did he think would happen when the media reported you’d been found?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “We were young, both terrified, panicked. We were thinking of the next ten minutes, not the next ten hours.”
>
  He nodded, understanding. Trying to think rationally at such a moment, well, it was amazing she had survived. It would have taken some kind of miracle for them both to.

  Maybe there would have been one, if the kidnapper hadn’t returned soon enough to realize what Jack had done. Collier had been killed by police later that night . . . if only he hadn’t come back before going to pick up the money, Jack might very well have been saved.

  Funny, how he was thinking of this whole scenario as such a likely one or, at the very least, remarkably plausible. A part of him had already accepted it.

  “So you ran for your life.”

  Her mouth trembled the tiniest bit. “Yes.”

  And, he assumed, she’d never seen Jack again. At least, not until she saw his face in a forensic artist’s sketch. Or believed she had.

  “I thanked him, told him I’d come back for him, and took off. I ran for a while, then found a place to hide and stayed there, shivering, all night long. I didn’t come out until dawn.” Her voice faltered and her hand, the one holding the wineglass, trembled. “Looking back, I think Collier must have come back soon after I’d gotten away and realized what Jack had done. So he killed him and took the body with him when he went.”

  “And the camper and all their stuff?” he pointed out, still hung up on the timing of this whole thing.

  She nibbled the tip of her finger. “I sat down with a piece of paper and figured out the time line. It would have been tight, yes, but not impossible. He could have killed Jack, ditched the camper, brought the body back into town and walled it up, then gone to the ransom drop point. He had hours—seven or eight at least.”

  He could see by the twist of her mouth that she was regretting those hours, every one of them, that she’d spent hiding. Poor, terrified kid.

  “It wouldn’t have saved him,” Gabe murmured, leaning forward in his seat, wanting to make sure she really heard him—and believed. “If you’d kept running, been rescued right away, it still would have taken a long time for the police to figure out where you’d been.”