She'll Never Know

by Hunter Morgan

  * * *

  The Bloodsucker carried the morning paper to the kitchen table. Having the paper delivered was a luxury. Growing up, Granny had never allowed him to read the paper. He couldn't watch the news, either. The only thing they ever watched on the old TV that had gotten bad reception because she refused to waste her money on cable, was religious shows. The kind with women with piles of white hair on their head, fake eyelashes, and black mascara that always ran in rivers down their faces halfway through the show.

  As God-happy as the old bitch had been, they had never gone to church. The Bloodsucker would have loved to have gone church. He would have liked to see others dressed in their Sunday best. Gone to Sunday school, maybe attended a church supper. But that would have meant contact with others, and Granny hated people. Hated him most of all.

  The Bloodsucker placed the newspaper, open, on the table and smoothed out the fold in the center. There he was, on the front page again. After nearly a week, he thought he would have moved to the local section. The paper came out of Wilmington. Most days, it barely even mentioned what was going on below the canal in the two lower counties. But he was big news.

  No Leads Leave a Small Beach Town Terrified, the headline read.

  He liked the sounds of the words as he read it aloud. He liked alliteration. He checked the byline. Lewis Carson. He liked Lewis. Liked how clever he was with his article titles. It wasn't exactly about the Bloodsucker today; it was about Albany Beach and its citizens. But that was okay. Lewis was just trying to make a buck, climb the newsroom ladder, and it looked like he was doing well. It was his fifth front-page article in a little more than a week, and he had the Bloodsucker to thank.

  "You're welcome," he said aloud to Lewis. "Any time, buddy."

  At the sound of the Bloodsucker's voice, his dog, Max, lifted his head in interest. Sometimes the Bloodsucker called him buddy, too.

  "I'm not talking to you, boy, silly boy." He crossed to the stove to turn his sizzling scrapple. Growing up with Granny, scrapple had only been for Sundays, then just one piece. A half pound lasted weeks, until it was nearly rancid in her refrigerator. Now he ate it twice a week, always on Mondays and Fridays. Who said scrapple was only for Sundays? He never ate it on Sundays now. Sundays he had hotcakes and as many link sausages as he wanted. Tuesdays and Thursdays he always ate at the diner. Loretta had good specials those days.

  The Bloodsucker flipped the rectangular pieces of scrapple carefully. The trick with scrapple was to never turn it over too soon. It had to be crispy before you flipped it.

  Max caught the scent of the frying meat and got up off the floor to trot over to his master. The dog didn't beg, though. He was too well-mannered.

  The Bloodsucker set the spatula on the plate he had taken out of the cupboard for just that purpose. This way he wouldn't have to scrub the whole counter down with a bleach wash; you had to be careful with raw pork products. He crouched down to get eye level with Max and scratched behind his ears.

  "You waiting for your breakfast, boy?" he said. "What a nice boy to wait so patiently." He drew his hand down the dog's back and not a single hair was shed. The Bloodsucker had just brushed him on the porch last night. Brushed him until his coat shone. Granny had never let him have a pet because she said they were a big responsibility, and he was too lazy, too stupid to care for one.

  The Bloodsucker took good care of Max. He took him to the vet every year for his checkup and never missed his monthly heartworm pill. He had even read last year about the dangers of the West Nile virus with pets and gone back to the vet to get a new product to keep fleas, ticks, and mosquitoes off Max. If he was going to have a pet, he knew he had to give him the best care. It was his responsibility.

  "Okay, now go lay down. First my breakfast, then your kibble. I wouldn't want you to burn your tongue on the hot scrapple." The Bloodsucker pointed, and Max obediently lumbered over and lay back down in his favorite spot again.

  At the sink, the Bloodsucker washed his hands carefully with bacterial soup and dried them with a paper towel. You always had to be careful when handling food.

  He drained the piece of scrapple on a plate of paper towels and fried two eggs perfectly, sunny-side up. Not runny. Never runny. Granny made her eggs runny.

  He carried his plate, fork, and knife to the table, where he had already put down a placemat and a glass of orange juice.

  Now he was ready to enjoy his breakfast before work and read the article about how the town was terrified. Terrified of him.

  The thought made him smile.

  * * *

  The bells on the front door of the shop jangled, and Jillian looked up from the cash register as she counted out the change for her customer. "That's eighteen, nineteen, and twenty." She handed her the small white bag. "Thanks so much. Come again."

  Jillian recognized the person walking through the door, even without her police uniform. It was Chief Claire Drummond. "Good morning," Jillian called. Millie wouldn't be in until the afternoon; Jillian was on her own.

  The chief smiled. She was a beautiful, tall—close to six feet—slender woman with blond hair cut in a shoulder-length shaggy style that made her look even younger then she had to be. She was dressed casually, like everyone else who came into the shop off the boardwalk, in shorts and a tee. Only as she drew closer, Jillian saw that she was wearing a New York City Police shirt with a precinct number embroidered on the left side.

  Jillian's mouth went dry, and she felt the hair rise on the nape of her neck. She couldn't take her eyes off the shirt. There was something hauntingly familiar it. Something that spooked her.

  "A friend gave it to me after nine-eleven," Claire said, touching her hand to her left breast. "My daughter said I shouldn't be caught dead in it. She says it's like announcing narc to everyone I pass on the street." She wrinkled her nose as she leaned on the jewelry counter. "Scary thing is, my daughter thinks she's being nice when she offers this kind of advice." She offered her hand. "I'm Claire Drummond."

  Jillian shook it. The anxiety she had felt over the shirt was fading, leaving her with nothing but an eerie sense of déjà vu. "Jillian Deere."

  "I know. Amnesia victim come to town to find herself and stalk cute college guys." Claire laughed when Jillian looked surprised. "Chief of police. Kind of my job to know who's who."

  Jillian could feel her face growing warm with embarrassment. "Don't tell me you've been talking to Mrs. Addison."

  "Actually, Penny, the girl who cuts my hair, who also cuts Alice's." The police woman flicked her fingers through her blond hair. "Just got it cut this morning. Feels like Penny did a real hack job, but I always feel a little naked when I get my hair cut. I think all women do."

  Jillian covered her eyes with her hand for a moment. The hairdressers in town were talking about her? Now she was mortified. "So, Chief Drummond, did you come in here to round me up and run me out of town?" she asked, realizing how foolish a grown woman looked hiding behind her hand. She lowered it.

  To Jillian's surprise, the police chief burst into laughter. It was an easy, bubbly laughter that was contagious.

  Jillian couldn't resist a chuckle.

  "It's Claire, please. And, actually, I came in to get my mom a gift. Sixty-seventh birthday." She shook her finger. "But from what I hear, Mrs. Addison would have you run out on a rail if she had her way, you sly older woman you, taking advantage of her little boy."

  Jillian thought she should have been offended by the stranger coming right out and saying such a thing, but she wasn't. She liked Claire Drummond. Liked her directness. And who could not like a woman with enough guts to drag a teenager from a public place?

  "I don't know what to say," Jillian confessed. "Except that he hit on me first."

  Claire grinned. "That's my boy, Ty." She leaned forward, as if bringing Jillian into her confidence. "And let me tell you, had I not been his baby-sitter once upon a time, I might be pursuing him, too. I love the motorcycle."

  Claire had Jillian chuckl
ing again. "What can I help you with? Anything in particular your mom might like?"

  The police woman tapped on the glass. "I need a silver charm for a bracelet, the sand dollar is the newest one in the series, I think." She glanced up; she had such an expressive face. "I'm boring. I bought my mom and my daughter the silver charm bracelet two years ago. I get them charms for every occasion. Of course, these days, my daughter prefers bats and skulls over horseshoe crabs and lighthouses."

  She wrinkled her lightly freckled nose. "I've got the bracelet in my jewelry box for safe keeping right now. I know you were in the diner the evening I yanked her butt out of there; you saw what she looks like. I just keep praying this Goth thing she's into is just a passing phase."

  Jillian laid the silver charm in the shape of a sand dollar on a black velvet tray for Claire's inspection.

  "That's perfect. Could you wrap it?" Claire asked. "That and a year's subscription to People magazine, and I've got Mom's birthday wrapped up for another year."

  "No problem." Jillian grabbed a gift box from under the counter. Millie pre-cut silver and white wrapping paper to fit the jewelry boxes, so it would only take her a minute.

  Claire fingered a silver chain hanging from a display rack. "Listen, I don't want to start a panic in the town or anything"—she started out casually, but as she spoke, her voice became keener—"I know you know what's going in our town. The women who have been murdered."

  Jillian glanced up as she reached for a strip of tape from the weighted dispenser.

  "I don't know if you know all the women who've been murdered were blond-haired and blue-eyed."

  "Like me, "Jillian said softly.

  "And me, and my daughter before she dyed her hair Death Valley black, and twenty percent of all the women in this town..." She let the words hang in the air for a moment. "I'm not saying you're at more risk than any woman is in any town in this country, but I just want you to be careful. I want every woman in this town to be careful." There was hint of emotion in her last words.

  "I am," Jillian said lightly. "Besides, I know martial arts. Someone comes after me, I'll hi-karate them." She ducked under the counter to grab a silver foil bow.

  "You do? Take classes?"

  Realizing what she had just said, Jillian slowly stood up, shifting her gaze to the floor, but not focusing on it. "I have no idea." Her mind was completely blank on the subject. She had no clue how she had learned the art of self-defense. She just knew she knew it.

  Claire slid her credit card across the counter. "So you really do have amnesia, and not just about your assault?"

  Suddenly feeling self-conscious, Jillian carried the credit card to the cash register to scan it and make the sale. "I don't really know how to explain it. I know how to do everyday things, but it's almost as if my personality is gone."

  She glanced up, meeting Claire's attentive blue-eyed gaze. "I don't have any idea what I did for a living. I remember no one. No places. No familiar landmarks. It's erased clean." She slid the charge slip, along with a pen, to Claire. "It's the strangest feeling."

  "Well, I wish you the best of luck." She signed the slip, tucked her credit card into her wallet, and reached for the bag. "And please do be careful. Lock your doors and windows. Check the backseats of cars before you get in. You know, common-sense things."

  Jillian thought of the cottage and its lack of air conditioning. She kept the front and back doors locked all the time, but she had to leave windows open; otherwise she'd smother. But she didn't want to bother the police chief with silly details like that. "I will. Thanks." She pressed her lips together. "And listen, about Ty. We're really just friends. I think Alice Addison is making way too big a deal out of—"

  Claire raised her hand. "You really don't have to explain anything to me. You're both consenting adults, and he really is a nice guy." She shrugged. "So enjoy it while it lasts." She drew her hand down in a wave. "Have a good day."

  "You, too." Jillian watched her go out the door and turn at the end of the building to leave the boardwalk, headed for the street. She stared at the New York City Police logo on the back of Claire's shirt and wondered what the connection was to her past.

  Chapter 6

  "It was the strangest feeling," Jillian explained to Ty as they walked along the water's edge. "Seeing that T-shirt scared the daylights out of me, and I have no idea why."

  The sun had set over the ocean, but it was still twilight, that eerie time between day and night that seemed to distort ordinary images. The ocean tide was coming in, washing cold white foam over their bare feet as they walked south toward the cottage. After he got off work and grabbed a shower, they had followed the beach all the way to the boardwalk, more than half a mile, and gotten a piece of pizza and a frozen lemonade.

  Ty caught her hand in his. "You think you're from New York City? Maybe you're a cop."

  She laughed. "I don't think so. I don't know what it was about the shirt, but I know it has something to do with me. With how I got this way."

  "You should start writing all this stuff down," he said thoughtfully. "I mean, it might seem haphazard or meaningless to you right now, but as time passes, and you remember more stuff, something might begin to come together."

  She nodded, squeezing his hand. His touch was comforting; she didn't feel quite so all alone in the world with Ty beside her. "Oh, and there was something else."

  She halted on the beach. Across the sand, beyond the dune and the gently swaying sea grass, she could see the outline of her cottage in the fast-fading light. "Claire was saying something about how I need to be careful with this crazy guy on the loose. You know, not me in particular, but women need to be careful, and I told her not to worry, that I knew martial arts. I've had self-defense classes."

  "You're kidding me!" He let go of her hand and stepped back to study her. "So show me a move."

  She laughed. He was so spontaneous. So unencumbered in life by things that dragged other people down. Things they couldn't even remember. "No," she said.

  "Oh, come on." He moved his hands as if he were in a bad martial arts movie. "Pretend I'm the nutjob. You're walking down the beach and I come at you."

  She laughed shaking her head, glancing away. "No, that's silly. How would I know you were the killer? What if you just wanted to ask me the time, or directions to the best pizza place in town?"

  "I don't know." He gestured excitedly. "Wait! I'm wearing a T-shirt. It's got, you know, like a count of how many women I've killed." He drew his hand across his pale blue, garment-dyed shirt, nearly white with wear. "I've got this permanent marker in my hand, ready to mark off my next victim."

  Jillian held up both hands and Ty came at her. Without thinking, she lowered herself into a defensive position and fended off his playful attack.

  He moved toward her again, this time faster. "Leaping Dragon, Flitting Fly," he taunted.

  Jillian felt her body spring forward, but she didn't feel as if she was in control. Without conscious thought of what she was doing, she grabbed Ty and threw him to the wet sand, pinning him down so that he was unable to move.

  "Damn."

  She looked down at Ty, forty pounds heavier than she was, trapped beneath her. She was as surprised as he was.

  "How did you do that?"

  "I don't know," she whispered, shaken. She let go of his arms and stood up. What kind of woman could do that to a young man Ty's age and size? she wondered, walking away. "And the movie was called Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon."

  "Wait," Ty called after her.

  All Jillian could think of was that she could have hurt Ty. Throwing someone around was dangerous. She had no right to do that, to him or anyone else.

  "Jilly, wait." Ty came after her, throwing sand as he ran.

  She kept her gaze fixed ahead, cutting across the beach to the crossover in the dunes in front of the cottage. "I'm sorry," she said, still shaken. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

  "You didn't hurt me." He grabbed her hand.

&n
bsp; She pulled away.

  "Jilly, would you listen to me?" He caught both her hands this time, forcibly stopping her. He made her turn to face him. "I'm not hurt," he said quietly. "I asked you if you could defend yourself. You showed me you could." He broke into a grin. "You kicked my ass."

  Something about the way he said it made her laugh.

  "I love women who can kick my ass," he whispered, wrapping her in his arms.

  Ty lowered his mouth to hers, and Jillian accepted it greedily. She didn't know what was wrong her. Suddenly every nerve in her body was alive and trembling. Those dreams about sex. The bed. The tangled sheets and the naked man coming out of the shower. They must have made her horny.

  Ty thrust his tongue between her lips, lifting his hand beneath her breast, and she moaned. There was something about the taste of him. The smell of him. The feel of his skin beneath her fingertips. Ty made her feel that she could survive this nightmare. As if she could, somehow, come out of it a whole person.

  Jillian pressed her hips to his and smiled against his mouth. She could feel his desire for her, hard against her thigh. She molded her body to his, letting him kiss her breathless again. He was a good kisser, attentive. Giving.

  She knew she shouldn't be doing this but... his touch, his taste made her feel so alive.

  Ty slid his hand into her gym shorts and cupped one cheek with his hand. "Mmmm, no panties," he whispered huskily in her ear.

  She chuckled, but it didn't sound like her own voice. It was deeper. Throaty. "Wash day."

  He nipped her earlobe with his teeth. "Okay by me if every day is wash day."

  Jillian dug her fingernails into Ty's back and dragged them downward. At the waistband of his board shorts, she hesitated. She felt as if she were on the precipice of a cliff. Did she have the nerve to step over the edge?

  But his gentle kisses urged her on. She was trembling from the tips of her bare, wet, sandy toes to the ends of the strands of hair on her head. What had the police chief said to her today? Something about them both being consenting adults?