She'll Never Know
Page 25
But he was.
He could wait until they both fell asleep in her bed and then sneak into the house. He could slip the plastic Ziploc bag with the chloroform-soaked cloth from his pocket and cover Ty's mouth and nose with it, then Jillian's. But would there be enough chloroform? Maybe he'd have to save the chloroform for Jillian and just kill the young man in the bed.
But with what? Guns were too easy to trace. And then you had to worry about gunpowder residue, stuff like that. Maybe a simple household item? Then there was the blood issue. There was always the blood issue.
But if he did kill Ty at the cottage, he could just leave him behind. He could carry Jillian to his car, parked only a block from her house, in his arms, her beautiful blond hair falling over his shoulder. Or he could hope there was enough chloroform and take them both with him. That might be fun, too.
The Bloodsucker trembled with excitement.
He halted on the edge the water and turned to face the cottage, staring brazenly. Jillian's silhouette was so perfect in the moonlight. Of all the women, she was the closest to the old photo.
He slipped his hand into the breast pocket of his shirt and removed the photograph he always carried with him. Always. Even in the moonlight he could see her image. The exquisite blond hair, the slightly upturned nose, the blue eyes that could look right through you to your soul.
He pushed the photo back into his pocket. He had to be careful with it; it was the only one he possessed. To lose it would be to lose himself.
The photo safe once more, he glanced up at the cottage. He walked up the beach toward the dunes, his hands thrust casually into his khaki shorts pockets. Still no one on the beach either north or south of him for more than a block.
He lost sight of Jillian and Ty for a moment, but closer to the dunes, he could see them again. They were talking quietly, but their voices didn't carry on the slight breeze. He wondered what they were saying.
Then she looked out over the dunes right at him, and the Bloodsucker froze. Thinking quickly, he leaned over and pretended to pick something up. A pretty shell, maybe. He scuffed his bare foot in the sand the way he saw others do, then walked on as if just out for a solitary evening stroll on the beach.
He kept walking.
* * *
"Where?" Ty asked, craning his neck. "I don't see anyone."
Jillian climbed off the porch rail, chilled despite the warm, muggy night. "There in the dunes. Didn't you see him?"
Ty leaped off the porch rail, still staring into the darkness. "Jilly, I don't see anyone. Want me to run down and have a look?"
She grabbed his arm, leaning against him. Her heart was pounding, her hands shaking, and she had no idea why. "No," she whispered. She could have sworn the man was in sand camouflage, long sleeves, and long pants, but she kept it to herself, knowing how crazy that sounded on a warm night like tonight. "Let's just go inside."
The Bloodsucker walked a good distance down the beach before turning back to look at the cottage again. He knew he should go home. She had seen him. He might not have the same element of surprise. Besides, now she was inside. With him. Doors locked. Windows closed.
Of course there were ways to get indoors. Easy enough when you had a copy of the key. He chuckled at his cleverness. His forethought.
It would be foolishly dangerous to go inside for Jillian. Especially with Ty there. It would be so easy to make a mistake, leave some sort of evidence behind. But he had outsmarted the cops so far, hadn't he? Even the cleverest of all, Claire-Bear. Granny had been so wrong. They were the ones who were idiots, worthless, stupid idiots. He was the smart one.
He could prove it.
* * *
After they made love, Jillian lay on her stomach against Ty, her cheek pressed to his heart. She listened to the slow, steady beat, wishing she could be him. So relaxed and calm. He was still so young, his life had so many possibilities.
But maybe hers did, too.
"I've been thinking about leaving when my lease is up," she said quietly.
He rubbed her bare back. "Don't you think you should wait until I hear from Detective Twit in Atlanta?"
"The possibility that could be me is so far-fetched," she said. "I'd feel silly waiting around for weeks only to find it isn't me."
He smoothed her hair at her temple, kissed the top of her head. "I don't think we're talking about weeks. I'm telling you, I'll get the picture." He was quiet for a moment. "Where will you go?"
"New Jersey maybe?"
He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifted until she met his gaze. "You think there can be any truth to what Ruth Williams said? She's crazy, you know."
"Not crazy, just getting up there in years."
Ty chuckled. "Almost a hundred, yeah, I'd say so."
"I was just thinking that if the little girl she remembered from the cottage was me, maybe something in New Jersey would look familiar. I mean, I was drawn here. If it is me Ruth remembered, somewhere in my head I know who I am, where I came from. Maybe we should be checking missing persons in New Jersey."
"I did that this morning." His tone told her he'd found nothing.
"No thirty something blondes with blue eyes missing, huh?"
He kissed her forehead. "'Fraid not."
She laid her head on his shoulder again. "You should go home."
"I'd rather stay here with you. Tomorrow night's my last night. I thought we could spend tomorrow together."
"Your mother's been through a lot in the last week. You should spend the day with her." She sat up, making no effort to cover her nakedness despite the window still without curtains. With the funeral and all, she hadn't had time to get to the laundromat, but she was going tomorrow for sure. She looked down at him. "And you should go tonight. Otherwise, she'll sit up all night waiting for you to come in."
"You're right. At least about going home tonight." He sat up with a groan. "But I wish you weren't." He gave her a quick kiss and then got up to get dressed. "You want to meet me in the morning for breakfast, like ten, and then we'll go to the beach?"
"Millie already gave me the day off, so that would be nice."
He stepped into his board shorts and pulled them over his narrow hips. "Then I thought maybe we'd go out tomorrow night for something to eat—like in a real restaurant. I got paid, so I could actually buy you more than one of Loretta's cheeseburgers."
"I don't know, one of Loretta's cheeseburgers might be good." She laughed. "I've gotten pretty hooked on them, you know."
He dropped his white Green Day T-shirt over his head and leaned over and kissed her again, this time full on the mouth. "I'm going to miss you."
She closed her eyes for a moment, emotion welling up inside. She stroked his cheek; he needed a shave. "Hey," she whispered, barely trusting her own voice. "No mushy stuff. We promised each other, right?"
"No mushy stuff," he repeated gently. He pulled away. "So I'll see you in the morning?"
She dropped back on the bed, head on her pillow. "You bet."
Ty went down the dark hallway, grabbed his sunglasses off the table, and let himself out the front door, making sure it locked behind him. As he went down the steps, he pushed his sunglasses onto his head.
Ty followed the wooden plank sidewalk around the front of the house and made the turn to go along the side. As he came around the corner, he tripped on something that hadn't been there earlier and went down hard, his glasses flying off his head and landing somewhere in the sand.
"What the—"
Before he could get the words out, something hard struck the back of his head. It felt as if his brain were exploding, and then everything went black. As he fell face forward, off the plank sidewalk, all he could think of was his new sunglasses and how the sand would scratch them.
* * *
After Ty had gone, Jillian got up and went to the bathroom, then back to the bedroom. She pulled one of his surf shirts that she had commandeered over her head before climbing into bed. She
was worn out, but there were so many things going on in her head right now that she didn't know how she would sleep.
She thought about Jenkins and what the old man had said about having to confront the past to make a future. Then she thought about Ty, whose motto was to just move on, forget the past and make the best of the day. They seemed like opposing philosophies and yet, she wondered if they really were. Maybe she could confront her past as Jenkins had confronted his, then leave it behind the way Ty left his sunglasses everywhere.
She rolled onto her side, studying the pattern of light and dark cast by the moonlight on the hardwood floor. Jenkins had confronted his past, but in many ways, it seemed to her that that confrontation had left him a broken man. Could she use her past, the mistakes she had made, to make herself stronger? Could she forgive herself for betraying those she sensed had been close to her heart, and then move on?
And then, where would she move on to? How would she support herself? What kind of life did she want?
The thoughts, the questions, all tumbled in her head. The clock beside the bed ticked, and she began to get drowsy.
Jillian had just closed her eyes when a sound from the kitchen made her roll over and look toward the bedroom door. What was that? Ty coming back in? She didn't remember hearing his motorcycle, but she could have drifted off for a minute.
Had he forgotten his glasses yet again?
She waited for what seemed an eternity, but heard nothing. Then, just as she relaxed on her pillow, she heard it again.
The front door.
At once, Jillian's pulse was racing. "Ty?" she called.
Again, silence.
Jillian took a shuddering breath, frozen for a moment. She didn't know what to do.
The house remained silent, except for the tick of the old clock in the hall and her own breathing.
Then again, just when she thought her imagination was playing tricks on her, she heard the sound again. It was the front door creaking. The old house made lots of noises. There were moans and groans from the pipes. The ancient shutters on the windows scraped at night, sometimes. An old TV antenna wire sometimes snapped against the side of the house on windy nights. But the door hinges did not creak of their own accord.
Heart pounding in her chest, Jillian climbed noiselessly out of the old bed.
Someone was in the house, and it wasn't Ty. She could feel a foreign presence. Feel her fear of him.
As she stood there, time seemed to slow down. Lag. The thoughts that ran through Jillian's head were now jagged. Disjointed.
Was Kristen's killer in the house? Had he come for her?
She had no phone, no way to call for help. And to scream would do no good. Her elderly neighbors would never hear her.
Jillian looked frantically around the dark bedroom, searching for a weapon to defend herself. All she could think of was, he might take her, but not without a fight.
Of course she had no weapon. No gun. She hated guns. No knife or other sharp object. All she had was... Her gaze settled on the silhouette of an object leaning against the wall. A wooden curtain rod.
Jillian reached out, ear still turned to the door, and grabbed the heavy rod.
No sound came from the front of the house.
It was her imagination. All her imagination.
She glanced at the window. Ty had climbed in it. She could climb out. Run for help.
Help for what? A creaky house?
There was no sound now. If someone was in the house, wouldn't he be moving around? Either gathering whatever he'd come to steal or coming down the hall for her, if that was why he was here?
Jillian took a step toward the door, sliding her bare foot soundlessly. She knew which floorboards creaked and which didn't. If it was Ty into the kitchen trying to scare her, she was going to whack him over the head with the curtain rod anyway.
She took another step, then another, breathing easier with each.
There was no one in the kitchen. The man she had seen on the beach tonight—or imagined she had seen—had just spooked her. This whole idea that someone was following her was probably just her conscience. No one was after her. She just felt guilty for what she had done, sleeping with the man she should not have been sleeping with. With her best friend's husband.
The realization that had just gone through her head halted her mid-step.
The man in the shower. He had been her best friend's husband? How could she have done such a thing?
She took another step, almost a stagger. The more she remembered, the more she wondered if she really wanted to know.
Then Jillian heard another sound in the kitchen.
Her head snapped up. Was someone really there?
She slid her bare foot along the smooth wooden floor, easing into the hallway. In the moonlight, she could see the front door ajar. Had Ty left it open?
No.
She slid her foot forward again, easing farther down the hall. She could still not see anyone.
A part of her still assured herself this was all her imagination. This kind of stuff didn't really happen. She'd felt spooked ever since she woke up in that hospital. She'd been imagining someone watching her for weeks. A woman who had been cheating on her best friend probably would be looking over her shoulder.
Jillian took another step, curtain rod still in her hand, raised above her head to strike. Another step and the kitchen would be in view.
She held her breath. Slid her bare foot forward.
For a moment, she didn't believe her own eyes. A man was standing in the dark, his back to her. A real man, not a figment of her imagination. In sand-colored camouflage.
And it wasn't Ty. This man was too big. Too brawny.
Jillian couldn't breathe. Her heart was pounding. Her pulse racing. It was all the same feelings she remembered from the bedroom in her dreams. Suddenly she felt dizzy. Somewhere in her head she could hear the shower running. The fan ticking overhead.
But this had nothing to do with her dream. She had to think clearly. This was an intruder. Possibly even the man who had killed Kristen and the others.
Jillian had to get out of the house.
Had to get back to the bedroom. No. The bathroom was closer. She could lock herself in there. Break the window. Climb out.
She started to slide one foot back and then he turned.
"Where do you think you're going?" he said in a cool, impersonal voice that was more frightening than his actual presence.
A voice she knew.
Jillian suddenly felt as if she were being sucked backwards into some science fiction vortex. For an instant, lights seemed to flash in her head, and she felt as if she were falling.
The male voice triggered a flood of memories all at once. Memories piled on memories. Overlapping. The emotions hit her like his fists as she saw pictures of herself... of him... flash through her head.
Tears. Screaming, shouting matches. Him pushing her. Slapping her. A trip to the hospital for a fractured tibia. A laceration over her eye that had to be stitched.
The embarrassment. The feeling of guilt that it was all her fault.
A lump rose in Jillian's throat as her tears clouded her vision. Slowly she lowered the curtain rod, not having the strength to hold it up.
"I've been looking for you, Laurie."
His voice penetrated the very essence of her being.
It was Michael who had stepped out of the shower in her dream. In that bedroom that night.
Michael, her husband. No. Not her husband any more. Separated. The divorce final by now.
Another sob rose in Jillian's throat. She choked. Gasped as the painful memories surrounded her, engulfed her until she felt as if she were drowning in them. Suffocating under their weight.
Michael, her husband, stepping out of the shower. His muscular bare back slick with water. Her drunken laughter.
But it wasn't Jillian naked in the bed. She'd had the dream all wrong. It wasn't her laughter. She wasn't the one who was drunk.
Maggie who she loved. Maggie, a fellow physician whom she had been friends with since medical school. They'd done their residency together. Found jobs in Atlanta together. It was Maggie who had introduced Jillian to Michael.
Jillian loved Maggie like a sister. Like Lynn, her sister who lived in California.
The memories were coming back so fast that Jillian was overwhelmed. Lynn. Lynn had to be so worried. And Mom and Dad. Getting on in years. Living on the golf course in the retirement community in Florida, begging her to leave Atlanta, leave Michael and start a new practice in sunny Fernandina Beach.
Jillian stumbled forward, dizzy, fearing she might faint. She caught the wall with her hand to keep from going down.
Michael turned toward her. Michael, her cop. Michael who was divorcing her before she had the chance to divorce him.
He had a gun in his hand.
She hated guns, and he had so many. A collector.
He was dressed in camouflage and boots as if he was going hunting, only the camo wasn't the kind you wore in the woods. The colors were all wrong.
There was sand on the floor. Sand he had brought in when he'd approached from the beach. It hadn't been her imagination tonight when she thought she'd seen a man behind the dune. It had been Michael watching her.
Jillian slowly lifted her gaze from the pistol at his side to his face. "Maggie shot me when I walked in on you."
"She didn't mean to," he said, easing a step toward her. "She was drunk. High. You know she has that little problem."
Jillian hadn't known.
She stared at Michael's handsome, rugged face, not sure if she was more shocked by the memories or by him standing in front her now with the gun. Laura had never thought he would really try to hurt her. He just had a bad temper. She made him angry. She pushed his buttons. All they needed was some counseling. He needed to work through his anger. His job. There was so much stress...
Bullshit, Jillian thought, pushing Laura aside. "I came to tell you that night that I didn't want the divorce," she said. "That I wanted to give our marriage one more chance." She almost chuckled, remembering clearly now. What could she have been thinking? She should have taken the divorce settlement and run.