by J. R. Ward
Do you believe in demons?
Across town, Marie-Terese sat on her sofa and stared at a movie she wasn’t watching. It was her…fourth in a row? Fifth? She hadn’t slept the night before. Hadn’t even tried to put her head on the pillow.
Vin was in her mind…in her mind and speaking in that strange voice: He’s coming for you. He’s coming for you.
When he’d gone into that bizarre trance in the locker room, the message that had come out of his mouth had been terrifying, but his fixated eyes had been even worse. And her first response? It hadn’t been, What the hell are you talking about? No, she’d thought to herself, How do you know?
Having had no idea what to do or how to handle herself, much less him, she’d bolted out of the locker room and told his friend to go in there.
She looked down at the business card in her hand. Turning it over for the hundredth time, she stared at what he’d written: I’m sorry.
She believed that—
The ring tone that lit off beside her scared the hell out of her, making her jerk so badly the card flipped from her hand and went flying.
Catching her breath, she reached for the cell phone that was next to her on the sofa, but the call failed before she could see who it was and answer it. Just as well—she didn’t feel like talking to anyone and it was likely just a wrong number.
The little Nokia was the only phone she had. The one in the kitchen that was wired into the wall didn’t have a dial tone because she had never activated the line. The thing was, however private you could make a residential phone number, people could still penetrate the identity shield more easily than they could a mobile, and she was all about anonymity—which was why she had looked only at rentals that had utilities included in the monthly rate: It meant that the bills remained in her landlord’s name, instead of being switched to hers.
As she put her phone down, she thought of the past, to the way things had been before she’d tried to leave Mark. Back then, her son’s name had been Sean. Her name had been Gretchen. Their last name had been Capricio.
And she was actually a real, live redhead. Unlike Gina at the club.
Marie-Terese Boudreau was a total lie, with the only thing she’d kept true being her Catholic faith. That was it. Well, that and the debt with the lawyers and the private investigator.
At the time, after everything had gone down, she’d had the option of entering into the witness-protection program. But cops could be bought—God knew her ex and his capos had taught her that. So she’d done what she’d had to with the district attorney, and when Mark had pled out, she’d been officially free to run east, getting as far away from Las Vegas as she could.
God, she’d hated having to explain to her son that they were going to change the names they went by. She’d been worried that he wouldn’t understand…except when she’d started to explain, he’d stopped her. He knew exactly why it had to happen and had told her it was so no one could know who they were.
That facile knowledge had broken her heart.
As her cell whistled again at her, she picked it up. There were few who had the number: Trez, each of the sitters, and the Center for Single Mothers.
It was Trez and the connection was bad, suggesting he was traveling.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Did you see the news?”
“I’ve been watching HBO.”
As Trez started talking, Marie-Terese grabbed for the remote and went to the local NBC station. Nothing but the Today show—
The local update chilled her straight to the bone.
“Okay,” she said to him. “All right. Yes, of course. When? Okay, I’ll be there. Thanks. Bye.”
“What’s wrong, Mama?”
Before she looked over at her son, she gathered the reins of her face and reeled her expression in. When she finally turned toward him, she thought he seemed closer to three than seven in his pj’s with his blanket dragging on the floor.
“Nothing. Everything’s fine.”
“You always say that.” He walked over and shuffled up onto the couch. When she handed him the remote, he didn’t change the channel to Nickelodeon. Didn’t even glance at the TV. “Why are you looking like that?”
“Like what?”
“The bad time is back.”
Marie-Terese reached over and kissed his head. “It’s going to be okay. Listen, I’m going to have Susie or Rachel or Quinesha come over and sit with you for a while. I have to go in to work for a minute.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, but I’ll get you breakfast first. Tony the Tiger?”
“When will you be back?”
“Before lunch. Just after, at the latest.”
“Okay.”
As she went into the kitchen, she dialed the Center for Single Mothers’ babysitter service and said a prayer as the ringing started up. When she got voice mail, she left a message and went through the motions of filling up a bowl with Frosted Flakes.
Her hands trembled so badly, they actually helped the cereal out of the box.
Those two college kids from the club were dead. Shot in the alley behind the parking lot. And the police wanted to talk to her because the clubgoer who’d found the bodies had reported seeing the pair harass her.
As she took out the milk, she told herself that it was just a coincidence. People got violently mugged downtown all the time, and those kids had clearly been on drugs. Maybe they’d been trying to make a buy and the transaction had gone south.
Please let it not have anything to do with her, she thought. Please let her old life not be catching up with her.
Vin’s voice rippled through her head. He’s coming for you….
Resolutely shutting that part of things out so she didn’t lose her mind with fear, she focused on the fact that in less than a half hour she was going to be sitting down with the police. Trez had seemed confident that her cover was going to stick, that the whole I’m-just-a-dancer was ironclad. But God…what if she were arrested for what she did?
See, this was another thing she’d learned from her husband: If you lived a life with a shaky foundation, the walls could cave in on you pretty damn quick once the cops got to asking questions.
It had turned out that was really why he’d had to hit the road. He and his “friends” had killed one too many of their “clients” in the “building” trade and the feds as well as the locals had come after them. The one saving grace for her was that as a mere wife, she hadn’t had a clue about the way the mob had worked. His mistress, on the other hand, had known much more and been brought up on charges as an accomplice.
What a mess it had been. What a mess it still was.
Marie-Terese took the bowl of cereal to her son and got him one of their two TV trays. As she walked around, her heart was pounding so hard it was a wonder Robbie couldn’t hear the thing, but she did her best to remain calm on the surface.
Clearly, he didn’t buy the act. “Are we going to move again, Mama?”
She paused in the process of flipping open the tray’s legs. She didn’t lie to her son—okay, not about the majority of things—but she wasn’t sure how to coach her words.
But then there was no way to do that, was there.
As her phone rang again, she looked at him before she accepted the call from the sitters. “I don’t know.”
CHAPTER
17
As Vin drove through Caldwell’s outer reaches, his efficiency was autopilot more than awareness, and it was hard to know what was riding him harder: the shit with those dead boys or that hideous dream about Devina.
The cops were absolutely going to show up at the Iron Mask for a hi-how’re-ya-what-the-fuck, and if anyone said a peep about what had gone down in the hallway, they were going to want to see what those security cameras had caught. Which wouldn’t be good news. Sure, neither he nor Jim had thrown the first punch or pulled a knife, but then, they were still breathing whereas the other two had had a matching set of lea
d pacemakers implanted in their chests.
And that horrible nightmare…it had been so real, he could still feel those bony hands locked onto his shoulders. Hell, as he thought about it, his cock shriveled behind his fly like the thing wanted to hibernate in his lower intestine.
You made a bargain and you’ve taken everything I brought into your life, you’ve eaten it, drank it, fucked it—I’m responsible for it all and you owe me.
Bargain? What bargain? As far as he knew, he’d made nothing of the sort with her. Or anybody else.
Whatever, he was arguing about what had been in a dream. Which was nuts.
Bottom line, he was going to end things with Devina as fast as he could—and not because his subconscious clearly had issues with her. The thing was, their relationship wasn’t based on love and it wasn’t even based on passion. Passion was sex with soul, and no matter how many times she’d made him come, only his body had been in it.
He’d thought that would be enough. He’d assumed that was what he wanted. But his first clue that something was off was when he couldn’t even ask her the big question.
And then looking into Marie-Terese’s eyes had sealed the deal.
Of course, it didn’t mean that he and Marie-Terese were going to ride off into the sunset together; his reaction to her just told him there was a whole lot missing between him and the woman he’d thought he was going to marry.
God, the past tense in that was as jarring as a slap in the face.
Refocusing on the road, he cursed when he realized where he was. Instead of driving to his office, which was what he’d intended, he’d ended up on Trade Street, and as he passed by the front entrance of the Iron Mask, he slowed. There were two cop cars parked across from the club and a uniform by the main door.
The smart thing was to keep going.
And he did. Sort of.
Vin went to the next street and hung a left, making a box around the club and heading for where the cars parked in back. Just as he came into the lot, he stopped. There were more police cars in the rear, and on the next block over, yellow crime scene tape was stretched between two buildings.
So that was where the murders had taken place.
The beep of a car horn brought his eyes to the rearview mirror. Behind him was a dark green Toyota Camry…and Marie-Terese was in the driver’s seat.
Popping the gearshift into neutral, he pulled the parking brake and got out. As he walked over to her car, she put down the window—which he took as a good sign.
Man, he liked the way she looked with her hair back in a ponytail and just a red turtleneck and blue jeans on. Without all the makeup, she was truly beautiful, and as he leaned in, he smelled not perfume, but dryer sheets, the kind that were like sunshine in the nose.
Vin breathed deeply and felt his shoulders ease up for the first time since…yeah, right, like he could remember when.
“Did they call you, too?” she asked, staring up at him.
He shook himself back to attention. “The police? Not yet. You going to talk to them now?”
She nodded. “Trez called me about a half hour ago. I was lucky I could get a sitter.”
Sitter? His eyes flipped to the steering wheel where her hands were. No wedding ring, but maybe she had a boyfriend…although what kind of man would let his woman do what she did every night? Vin would whore himself out first if she were his.
Crap…how was she going to get around the inevitable question about what she did at the club?
“Listen, if you need a lawyer, I know some good ones.” Well, wasn’t this the day for throwing attorney cards around. “Maybe you should get one first before you talk to the police, given what you—”
“I’ll be okay. Trez isn’t worried, and I’m not going to be until he is.”
As her eyes bounced around, he realized she already had an exit strategy, and it didn’t take an Einstein to figure out what it might be. Clearly, she was just going to disappear if things got too hot, and for some reason that freaked him right out.
“I have to head in,” she said, nodding at his car. “You’re blocking the way to the parking lot.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.” He hesitated.
The question he needed to ask her jammed in his throat, blocked by a conviction of not-here-not-now, and propelled by a whole lot of but-when.
“I have to go,” she said.
“What did I say to you last night? In the locker room. When I, you know…” As she blanched, he wanted to hit himself. “I mean—”
“I’m sorry, but I really have to go.”
Shit, he shouldn’t have brought it up.
With a silent curse, he bounced his fist once on the roof as a good-bye and headed for his car. Back in the M6, he put the engine in first, released the clutch, and eased out of her way, turning around slowly as she parked nose-first to the club and got out of her Camry.
The owner opened the rear door as she came up to it, and the guy scanned the parking lot, as if he were watching out for her. When his eyes got to the M6, he nodded as if he’d known all along Vin was there, and suddenly Vin felt his temples sting, pressure building in his head as if something were pushing into him. All at once, his thoughts scrambled like a deck of cards pushed off a table, flying off in all directions, scattering faces up and faces down.
As soon as it began, it was over, his mind righted, everything from his aces to his jokers back in order.
While he winced and rubbed his head, Trez smiled tightly and said something to Marie-Terese, which caused her to look over her shoulder at the M6. Before the two of them ducked inside, she raised her hand in a little wave and then the door shut behind them.
Rain started to fall and Vin’s wipers came on automatically, sweeping up and down, up and down.
His corporate offices were not far from here, only five minutes, and there was plenty of work to do there: Architectural plans to review. Permit applications to approve before they were submitted. Offers to buy and sell land or houses that needed to be countered. Inspections to delegate. Pissing contests between contractors to settle.
Plenty of shit for him to do.
Except evidently, he’d rather wait here like a dog for her to come out again.
Pathetic.
Vin took off, leaving the Iron Mask and going toward the skyscrapers by the river. The building he had his offices in was one of the newest and tallest in Caldwell, and when he got to it, he swiped his access card and went down into the underground garage. After leaving the M6 in his designated space, he rode up in the elevator, passing floors of law offices and accounting firms and big-name insurance companies.
The ding for the forty-fourth floor sounded, the doors opened, and he got off and strode by the reception desk. Up high on the dense black wall behind it, done in golden letters and lit from below, was the name of his business: THE DIPIETRO GROUP.
Group. What a lie that was. Even though some twenty employees had desks here, and he had hundreds of contractors and workmen on his payroll every week, there was him and that was it.
Walking down the plush black carpet to his office, he felt stronger with every stride. This business of his was something he knew about and controlled…. He’d built the whole damn thing up from the ground, just like he did his houses, until the corporation was better and bigger than anything like it.
As he came into his corner office, he flipped the light switch and all of the tigerwood paneling he’d handpicked glowed like sun rays. In the middle of his black desk, there was a legal-size manila envelope on the blotter, and he thought, Ah, yes, Tom Williams always worked as hard as he did.
Vin sat down and opened the flap, sliding out the folded land study and approved plot plan of the three parcels of a hundred or so acres he had just closed on. The project that unified the separate farms was going to be a masterpiece, one hundred fifty luxury homes in what was currently horse country in Connecticut. The goal was to attract Stamford commuters who were willing to drive forty-five minutes to work so
they could live like they were Greenwich high rollers.
He was going to start demolition and construction as soon as the bids from contractors were where he wanted them to be. The land was perfectly sound, with a low water table that meant owners weren’t going to have to worry about their wine cellars getting a bath every spring, and he was going to run water and electric and sewer in through an interlocking underground system. First move, as was the case with the bluff property, was going to be tearing down all the old farmhouses and barns, but he’d decided to leave the stone marking walls in place to keep some character—provided they didn’t get in the way.
He was feeling good about all of it, especially for the price he’d gotten everything for. Times were tough and his offers more than fair. Besides, he’d sent Tom to do the negotiating with the local Realtors, which meant those poor fuckers hadn’t stood a chance.
Tom was his baby-faced killer. The guy was a Harvard MBA with a vicious drive—who happened to look like he was twelve. Sweet-as-apple-pie Tom had no problem posing as an environmental conservationist and making unactionable, verbal commitments to preserve land that was in fact going to be developed.
Well, he had no problem now. In the beginning, Vin had had to coach him into it, but as soon as the money had really started rolling in, the guy had gotten with the program and then some.
The pair of them had done the dog and pony show so many times, it was practically rote, with Tom going in and snowing the prospects with tree-hugger charm while Vin marshaled the money and got the permit and contracting side of things worked out. It was precisely how they’d gotten the property on the Hudson River, that quartet of old hunting cabins yielding the ten acres he was putting his grand house on.
When it came to his palace, he could have built anywhere, but he chose that peninsula because of the golden rule in real estate: location, location, location. Unless an earthquake shaved California off the West Coast, or every polar ice cap in Alaska melted, they weren’t making more waterfront, and you had to think of resale.