Although she lay in front of him, nearly nude, sex was the farthest thing from his mind. Other, disturbing thoughts took precedence.
It pissed him off that she’d been hurt at all, but it made him especially angry that it had occurred in his house. Although he couldn’t have predicted what had happened, he felt responsible for her safety. Maybe it wasn’t fair for him to accept the blame, but he blamed himself anyway. He’d been asleep when she’d come under attack. Thank God, she’d been capable of fighting back.
She was precious to him. If the assault had been worse . . . he didn’t want to dwell on it anymore. The idea made him almost ill.
Once he’d confirmed that she was okay, he had spent a few minutes searching for the felines. He hadn’t found so much as a fur ball to verify their presence inside his house.
It couldn’t have happened. But it had.
As he attended to her, she sipped a cup of chamomile tea. She’d been trembling and the tea helped to calm her.
“I knew they didn’t like me,” she said. “That was obvious when we got back home from dinner. One of them hissed at me, remember?”
“I just don’t understand how they got in the house. Or how they disappeared like that.”
“Me, neither, but they did,” she said in a don’t-argue-with-me tone.
“Still think we should take you to the hospital, in case they have rabies or something. Stray cats could be carrying anything.”
“I’ll go to the doctor later today, but those weren’t ordinary, disease-carrying stray cats, Drew. They’re something else, something scary and weird.”
She shivered. The coldness she felt must have jumped to him, because a shudder rippled through his body, too. She had voiced his same worries.
“I don’t know what they are, where they came from,” she said, “but they hate me. And they didn’t want to hurt you.”
That was another point that bothered him. Why did the cats attack her, but run when he arrived?
“They’ve been watching me for days,” he said. “But this is the first time they set foot in the house.”
“That you know of. They could’ve come in here while you were away.”
“Good point. But the real question is, why? I’m thinking the cats belong to someone, someone who commands them. They seem to be acting out of some purpose, know what I mean?”
She sucked in her lip, nodded. He dabbed ointment on a scratch across her cheek.
“I can think of only one person who’d be pissed at me right now,” she said. “Psycho chick.”
Squeezing the tube of ointment, he stopped. “What?”
“You know she’s jealous of me. My spending the night with you would be the kind of thing that would set her crazy ass off. She’s the only one who has a motive.”
“But we’re talking about her commanding some, I don’t know, supernatural cats to attack you? How could she do that?”
“Don’t know, but doesn’t it make sense? You just said those cats have been spying on you for days. She’s the only one who’d want to constantly keep an eye on you.”
“But Mika is only a regular woman. Yeah, she’s been obsessing over me, but it’s a helluva jump to go from calling her a psycho chick to believing that she’s got some trained attack cats that can vanish in thin air.”
“It wouldn’t be the first jump you’ve made lately. Last week, did you really think you’d be chatting with a ghost on your computer?”
He pondered her words. He rubbed ointment into a cut on her leg, and taped a bandage across the affected area.
He wasn’t ready to admit that Mika owned the cats. If it were true, it would change everything—for the worst. He wanted to hold onto his optimism for as long as he could.
“Let’s talk to Sammy,” he said. “He said he wants to help me, and he’s been quiet all night. It’s time for him to give us some answers.”
He brought a folding chair into the office, so that Carmen could sit beside him while he attempted to communicate with Sammy again.
His last question—Why do you say I’m in big trouble now?—remained unaddressed. Perhaps, at this point, it was moot. Mika had thrown a violent fit in his house and the weird cats had attacked Carmen. Obviously, he was in big trouble of some kind.
He erased the question and typed a new one: SAMMY, ARE YOU HERE?
“Might take him a few minutes to reply,” he said to her. “It did the first time.”
“Guess it’s a long walk to here from the other side,” she said.
“Or he could be sleeping,” he said, playing along. They desperately needed some humor to lighten the bleak mood.
“Doubt it,” she said. “Haven’t you seen the movies? The other side is always full of bright light. How could a ghost sleep somewhere like that? Bet he’s got bags under his eyes.”
He chuckled. Then he looked at her, solemn.
“I’m really glad you’re okay, Carmen.”
“Come on, I’m a tough chick, Drew. Your girl ain’t one of those damsels in distress that can’t run across a room without falling on her ass.”
Sudden coldness in the room brought their conversation to a halt. The frigid air swirled around them, and gathered near the laptop.
Both Andrew and Carmen’s breaths frosted in the ether in front of them.
“Sammy’s here,” Andrew said.
Carmen’s eyes shone with awe.
The laptop’s keys moved. Sluggishly—as if the ghost had been pulled from slumber, like they had joked.
I HEAR TYPENG MAKE TIRED
“Typing must be hard for him,” Carmen said. “We better get right to it.”
Andrew typed: WHO OWNS THE CATS?
He received the answer that he feared. The answer that changed everything.
HERS SENT THEM TO SEE YOU
“So Mika owns the cats,” he said. “She sent them to watch me.”
“Like I thought,” Carmen said, but without the usual glee that she had whenever she had the correct answer.
Sammy’s response triggered a batch of questions. Who was Mika—really? How did she have the ability to command the extraordinary cats? If the cats were not ordinary cats, then in what way was Mika not an ordinary woman?
Most important of all: Why had she chosen him?
“Ask something else,” Carmen said.
He typed: TELL US MORE ABOUT HER.
The keys moved, slowly.
VEREY SCAREY
Such iciness fell over him that the temperature in the room felt as if it had dropped thirty degrees. Carmen, too, looked frightened.
He typed: WHY DID SHE CHOOSE ME?
SEEN YOU
“Seen me?” he said. “I don’t get it. Of course she saw me, we met at Starbucks.”
“Ask a different question,” Carmen said.
He typed: WHERE IS SHE FROM?
SAD PLACE
“He told me earlier that he was from a sad place, too,” he said to Carmen.
She leaned closer to the screen. “So they must be from the same place, then.”
He asked: IS SHE A GHOST, LIKE YOU?
SAD PLACE HERS
He glanced at Carmen. Her face was as confused as his thoughts. He asked: WHAT IS THE SAD PLACE?
MORNENG
He typed: WHAT DO YOU MEAN?
Half a minute passed before the answer came.
GO TYPENG MAKE TIRED
“Wait!” Andrew and Carmen said.
But the coldness in the air dissipated.
Sammy was gone.
Chapter 28
The next day, Andrew visited Southwest Regional Library. The library was located on Cascade Road, in a stylish, reddish-brown brick building that stood far back from the busy thoroughfare. On this sunny Friday morning in early June, only a handful of cars sat in the parking lot. He parked in the corner, in the cool shade of a blooming dogwood.
He planned to do research on Mika. She knew an awful lot about him, but he knew little about her. Sammy, though he had tr
ied to assist them, didn’t possess the language skills or the knowledge to clearly answer all of their questions. Until they understood who Mika was, they would be incapable of protecting themselves against her and her feline minions.
Although he had Internet access at his house and could’ve begun his research in the privacy of his office, the library subscribed to expensive, members-only databases that he couldn’t tap into from home. Using their resources was the surest and quickest way to get the information he sought.
The librarian at the checkout counter greeted him. She was a stout, middle-aged black woman with beautiful jet-black braids that flowed to her shoulders. Her name tag read Elaine.
“Hi, Mr. Andrew. Visiting us to do some research for a new book?”
The library staff had assisted him with research for his previous two novels. He’d thanked them in the acknowledgments, which had pleased them to no end. At some point they’d decided that his name was Mr. Andrew, too. Correcting them had never worked, so he let it slide.
“Something like that,” he said. It was easier to let her assume he was doing book research than it was to explain that this was for personal reasons; besides, he was loathe to put his private life in the public eye. “Do you have some time to help me out?”
“I certainly do.” Grinning, she came around the counter. “What do you need?”
He dug into his book bag and fished out his spiral notebook. He’d scribbled a list of what he knew about Mika: name, the fact that she was raised in Georgia, age, and the few details he’d learned about her family. He didn’t have much information at all, and everything he knew was based on what she had told him—and she could’ve fed him a serving of lies.
“In my book, the main character needs to dig up information on a woman,” he said. “But he doesn’t know much about her. He knows her name and has some idea of where she’s from, and a few other general things, but not much more. He wants to learn as much as possible about her background. I need to know the steps he’d take, the databases he’d use—that sort of thing.”
Elaine clucked her tongue. “Sounds like a toughie. You say he knows her full name and where she’s from?”
“Yep.”
“That’s a good start. Come with me.”
She led him to a bank of computers. She sat in front of a PC and started tapping keys.
“By the way, I love your novels,” she said. “What’s this new one about?”
“Ah, you know I don’t discuss a book until it’s written. Might jinx myself.”
“Can you give me a little hint?” She smiled winningly.
She charmed a smile out of him. “Well, it’s about this guy who’s, uh, being stalked by this woman who he met. He needs to learn about her to get a better idea of who he’s dealing with.”
“Sort of like Fatal Attraction, is it?”
“I guess you could say that.” He chuckled uneasily.
She shook her head. “I tell you, honey, that’s why I’d never want to become famous. So many psychos out there. You hit it big and become a target for every nut in the country.”
He hadn’t fooled her one bit. She knew that he was conducting this research for personal reasons. He saw no reason to continue the charade.
“Elaine, I really need to find out more about this woman,” he said. “I’d appreciate any help you can give me.”
Nodding, she quickly accessed a Web site. She started clicking on links.
“Looks like this is gonna take a while,” he said.
“I’ll show you enough to get you started,” she said. “But you’re right, there are hundreds of resources out there, some public, others private. These days, if you know where to look, you can find out almost anything on anyone. We’ll dig up the info you need, Mr. Andrew.”
“Thanks. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”
After he’d spent over three hours in front of the computer, combing subscribers-only databases and public records, he had discovered only one noteworthy detail. And he wasn’t certain what he thought of it.
His finding: Lalamika Renee Woods was a fictional character.
His search had led him to a Web site that detailed characters and plot lines in novels, stage plays, television programs, and films. Lalamika Woods was the heroine in a romance novel entitled Soulmate Eyes; a writer named Alexia Forrest published the book in 1981.
You’ve got them . . . soul mate eyes . . .
The flesh at the nape of his neck tightened as he recalled Mika’s words.
Could this book contain clues about her? It was such a far-fetched notion that he almost believed that it would.
Fingers tingling, he scanned the online card catalog.
Score. The library had one copy of Soulmate Eyes available for checkout.
He hurried to the shelves and found the paperback. It was dogeared, the pages yellowed, but it was readable.
The cover art depicted an exotically beautiful young woman in the foreground, and in the background, glowing like a full moon, the countenance of a dark, handsome man with haunting eyes.
There was no photo or bio of the author, Alexia Forrest. But Mika couldn’t have published the book. He placed her age at around twenty-five, and with the novel seeing print in 1981, she would’ve been an infant at the time.
In college, he’d taken an Evelyn Wood speed-reading class, and he still used the techniques sometimes. The book was two hundred pages long; he could zip through it in about an hour.
He moved to a study carrel in a quiet corner, settled in, and started to read.
A little over an hour later, he set aside the novel and reviewed the notes he’d scribbled while reading.
The plot of Soulmate Eyes revolved around a young woman, an heiress to a New England estate, who’d lost the man she loved to a tragic accident. Devastated, she plunged into depression. Almost thirty years later, her fortunes changed when she met a younger man who reminded her of her deceased lover. It was the look in his eyes, his “soul mate eyes,” that fueled Lalamika’s belief that he was her long-lost love, returned.
Due to the age difference, he resisted her, preferring to seek the company of a woman closer to his own age. But Lalamika would not be deterred; she pursued him with the full force of her fortune and charms.
Near the end of the story, through various clues, she proved to the man that he was, in fact, her former lover—reincarnated into a new body. When she succeeded in helping him remember his past life and their old love, he ditched the other woman, and he and Lalamika lived happily ever after.
The book, though rife with purple prose and a predictable story-line, had riveted him.
On their first night together, Mika had related the story of losing the man she loved to murder at the hands of men her bigoted father had hired to kill him.
And she’d told Andrew that he possessed “soul mate eyes.”
It chilled him.
Mika wasn’t the author, and obviously, she wasn’t the actual character in the story, either.
But perhaps she’d read this book, and, finding parallels to her own life, had patterned herself after the heroine. Assumed the character’s name and beliefs. And had decided that Andrew was her lost love. Reincarnate.
It was crazier than anything he had imagined.
But all of this stuff had ceased to be logical. His world had slid full-tilt into madness.
He was willing to bet that his theory about Mika’s connections to this novel was right.
Nothing in the story explained Mika’s other characteristics—such as her apparent power over the strange cats. Her real name, true nature, and capabilities remained a mystery. But he had gained insight into her beliefs, as bizarre as they were, and that was better than nothing.
He approached the checkout counter with the book. He planned to keep the novel for a while, for future reference.
“I wanted to ask you,” Elaine said, “have you thought about going to the police?”
“If it comes to that, I wi
ll,” he said, though this was becoming so weird he wondered how helpful the cops would be.
Elaine scanned the paperback through the library loan system and then studied the cover, curious.
“Don’t ask,” he said. “This situation is more bizarre than you think.”
“Well, please be careful, honey.”
Carrying his book bag over his shoulder, he pushed through the revolving doors and walked into the summer heat. It was twenty after one. His stomach growled for lunch.
He headed to the corner of the parking lot, where he had parked.
His car was missing.
Chapter 29
Andrew spun around in the sun-drenched parking lot. About a dozen vehicles occupied the lot. But none of them was his. Which left only one possibility.
Someone had stolen his car.
“I don’t believe this shit,” he said. He was short of breath, as if he had been punched in the stomach.
He dug into his jeans pocket. He still had his key. The thief must have hot-wired the vehicle.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
There was never a good time to have your car stolen—but he didn’t think there could’ve been a worse time. He already had enough problems.
Shit.
Cursing under his breath, he took his cell phone out of its holster.
As he was about to dial the police, a horn bleated behind him.
Mika cruised toward him. Driving his car.
She had lowered the convertible’s top. She wore sunglasses—his Oakley sunglasses—and a wide grin. She looked happy and carefree, as if she’d been on a leisurely excursion in the country.
An old-school song played on the stereo: “I’m So Into You,” by Peabo Bryson.
His face burned hotter than the June sun.
Once again, she had found him. Had this woman tagged him with a GPS tracking unit or something? He’d read articles about stuff like that—cutting-edge gadgets based on global positioning technology that allowed one to track a person wherever he went, without his knowledge. It was as simple as concealing a tiny antenna on someone’s car. The antenna then transmitted signals to a handheld unit that displayed your target’s precise location on a digital map.
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