by Lisa Jackson
"You tell me." Sam caught up with her on the first floor, where Leanne was walking through the series of rooms to the front door. The girl shouldered it open and stepped down to the sidewalk where the heat of the day had collected.
Twilight had descended, the streetlamps were beginning to glow and the other girls in the group were already walking down the street chattering, two smoking long cigarettes. They split up at the corner, heading in different directions and disappearing along narrow streets.
"Maybe it wasn't such a great idea to get high," Leanne admitted as they stood beneath a streetlight. She seemed sincere as she cocked her head to look directly at Sam for the first time in over an hour.
"Just think about it. You were trying to punish your mother and your boyfriend, but who did you hurt? What did you accomplish?"
Leanne rolled her expressive eyes. "Myself, I know." She smiled and it was a killer smile, perfect white teeth and pretty lips.
"So, how do you feel?"
"I'm okay."
"You're sure?" Sam asked. There was something about Leanne that touched her. Beneath her armor of filthy language and tough attitude was a softer soul, one who sent her e-cards, a little girl trapped in a tough-looking teenage body.
"Yeah, I'm sure. For a screwup," she said, and laughed as a pack of teenage boys sauntered by. More than one of the boys eyed Leanne. Out of habit she tossed her short hair out of her face and met the boys' gazes with a challenging, amused grin.
"You're not a screwup," Sam assured her. "Remember, no negative names."
"Right. I'm not one, but I did mess up. Big-time."
"You took a step backward. Now it's time to go forward again."
"Yeah, I know," Leanne said, but her gaze was following the boys, who had stopped two streets up to join a group of people listening to the street musicians who were performing in front of the park.
"Then I'll see you next week."
"Okay. Sure." With a wave, Leanne dashed across St. Peter, pausing at the next corner to light a cigarette. She was a smart girl, whose mother, Marietta, had been arrested not only for dealing drugs but prostitution as well. Marietta, faced with losing her kids, had been clean for a couple of years, but Leanne had watched and learned from her mother. At seventeen Leanne had her own rap sheet for drugs and soliciting. Attending Sam's young women's group, being a part of a drug-counseling program that included routine testing and doing community service were all a part of her sentence.
Sam headed for her car but felt something, someone watching her. Assuming it was Leanne, she glanced over her shoulder, but the girl was nowhere in sight. The crowd that had paused to watch the band was increasing as the music played, people gathering around the brass ensemble that had set up near the entrance to the park. But one man stood apart from the others—a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black-leather jacket, dark pants and sunglasses despite the shadows crawling across the city. He wasn't looking at the performers. Instead he was staring straight at Samantha. Hard. He was too far away, and it was too dark to get a good look at his features, but Sam had the sensation that she'd seen him before, perhaps even knew him.
Goose bumps rose on her flesh, though she told herself she was being silly, for as she watched, he turned his attention to the band, melded into the group of people surrounding the musicians and seemed to disappear.
As if he'd never been there.
Maybe he hadn't been looking at her, but someone or something behind her. Maybe she was letting the events of the last few nights get to her, but as she walked along the street to her Mustang, she had the very real sensation that things were only going to get worse.
The night was hot, just the way he liked it, the air heavy against his skin as he paddled through the cypress to the tiny cabin on stilts hidden here, deep in the bayou. No one knew about this place; no one could ever know. He docked and climbed up a ladder to the bleached white porch surrounding the one-room shanty. The smell of the swamp filled his nostrils, the feeling he was free here, safe, made his tense muscles relax. He loosened his fly and took a piss over the railing, not only relieving himself, but letting the other creatures of the night know this was his place. His.
He heard the bats in the trees as he zipped up. Boots ringing hollowly, he made his way inside the cabin, where he lit a kerosene lantern. The ancient wood walls, filled with knotholes and gaps between the boards, glowed warmly. Mosquitoes droned, fireflies flickered through the open doorway and the sluggish water lapped against the old pilings. Alligators and cottonmouths swam in this part of the bayou, and he felt akin to the slippery beasts, a part of this dark night, this water forest.
There was no electricity, and the old chimney had started to crumble, not that he would dare light a fire. Smoke could be seen or smelled… no, he would keep in the relative darkness, only chancing the lantern. He opened the single cupboard and peered inside. A spider scurried into a crack as he reached into a corner where a worn velvet sack lay hidden. Inside the soft folds were his treasures, items he carefully withdrew. A cross suspended from a necklace. A fine gold chain just big enough to fit around a woman's slim ankle. An old locket from another lifetime. Just the beginning.
Carefully he placed his treasures on the rickety table next to his battery-powered radio. He surrounded the necklace, locket and ankle bracelet with his rosary, creating a perfect circle with his souvenirs squarely in its center. Then, satisfied, he checked his watch, waited forty-five seconds and pressed a button on the radio. Then she was with him. Over the hoot of an owl and crackle of static he heard the sound of the fading intro music and her voice—clear as if she were standing next to him.
"Good evening, New Orleans, this is Dr. Sam ready to take your calls at WSLJ. As you know we've been tackling a series of tough subjects about love, sin and redemptions. Tonight we'll discuss forgiveness…"
He smiled inwardly. Forgiveness. She was purposely baiting him, engaging in his game. Expecting him to call. He conjured up her face in his mind, remembered seeing her only a few hours earlier on the street near the park. She must have felt his gaze, been drawn to him, for she'd looked straight at him in the twilight.
Blood pumped furiously through his body, ringing in his ears, bringing an erection.
"… let me know what you think, how forgiveness has touched your life or conversely, how it hasn't? Is it always possible?" she asked in that smooth, coaxing, sexy voice, the voice of a Jezebel, a seducer, a whore. Sweat broke out between his shoulder blades, and he stood, walking restlessly, concentrating on the words—her words—touching him, caressing his mind, just as if she was speaking to him. Only to him. "What is it that constitutes forgiveness and can we always give it?"
The answer was no. Some acts were too vile to be forgiven and for those there was only one answer: retribution. His cock was suddenly rock-hard, straining against his fly. He needed relief. He imagined her hands, her mouth, her tongue as he touched himself.
Dr. Sam's voice was farther away now, muffled by the static on the radio and the buzz in his mind, but soon, oh, so soon, Samantha Leeds would understand.
About forgiveness and retribution.
About atonement and punishment.
About paying.
For her sins.
All of them.
He'd make her.
Just you wait, Doctor. Your time is coming. Then we'll see what you think about forgiveness, he thought, stroking himself.
Then we'll hear you beg.
Chapter Nine
"I don't like it, Sam," William Matheson was saying from his condo in Santa Monica the next morning. The phone connection was clear and her father sounded as if he was in the next room rather than over a thousand miles away. "I don't like it at all."
"Neither do I," Sam admitted, balancing the receiver against her shoulder as she laced up her Nikes, "but it's all part and parcel of the business."
"Then give it up. Open a private practice. All this radio stuff is just fluff. Doesn't do anyone a whole lot of g
ood, and it sounds dangerous."
"I shouldn't have told you," she said, straightening and tossing her hair from her eyes.
"I would have found out."
"I know. That's why I thought I should give you the straight scoop."
He sighed, and she sensed his frustration. Life hadn't turned out the way her father had planned. Not for him, not for his wife, or children.
"I just don't want to see you go through a replay of that nasty business in Houston."
"I won't," she said, but felt a chill deep in her heart.
"I don't have to remind you it all started with a phone call to the station."
"No, Dad, you don't. I remember it all very well." As if it were yesterday, she added silently as she walked from the living room into the kitchen. Goose bumps rose on her arm when she remembered the plaintive worried call from a desperate girl.
"Well, just keep it in mind, will you? I worry."
"I know you do. Enough for both of us… or maybe enough for a small city. Don't worry about me, Dad, I'm fine. Everyone at the station is alerted, and I've talked with the police. My guess is that whoever called has moved on. He had his twisted fun, and now he's off to torture small animals or scare kids in the park."
"It's not funny."
"I know, I know," Sam said. "I was just trying to lighten the mood."
Her father hesitated. "I don't suppose you've heard from Peter." Sam closed her eyes. Mentally counted to ten. Always. Dad always asked about her brother.
"Of course I haven't."
"I didn't expect it." But you keep asking. After ten years. "It's just that once you're a parent, you're a parent for life. You'll understand when you finally have kids of your own."
"I imagine I will." Now comes the part where he tells me I'm not getting any younger, that Cousin Doreen has two kids in school and another on the way.
"You know, Samantha, just because you had one marriage already, doesn't mean you have to swear off the institution. Your mother and I were married thirty-four years, and we experienced our ups and downs, but it was worth it, let me tell you."
"I'm glad, Dad," she said, though she sometimes didn't believe him. He'd survived his son's disappearance, his wife's death and focused on his only daughter, one who never seemed to listen to any of his advice. "You know I love you."
"I love you, too, sweetheart."
"Are you still dating the widow across the hall?"
"Helen? No… well, it's not really dating. We just play golf or bridge together once in a while."
"Trust me, she considers it a date."
"Is that your professional opinion?" he asked, and Sam heard the smile in his voice. For the moment, his worries about his daughter were allayed.
"You bet it is. You'll be getting a bill."
He laughed. "No freebies for the old man?"
"Especially not for the old man. Look, Dad, I've got to run, but I'll call again. Soon."
"Do that and, Samantha, be careful, would you?"
"Promise, Dad."
"Good girl." He hung up and Sam dropped the receiver into its cradle. She glanced out the window to the dock where the Bright Angel rocked against her moorings, sails down against a backdrop of blue sky. Shaking her head, Sam rubbed the tension from the back of her neck. No matter what she did, no matter how successful she became, how she proved herself, her father would always think of her as his little girl. Nor would he give up on Peter, despite the fact that whether it was a biological truth or not, in Sam's mind, her older brother was as good as dead.
Ty showed up sometime after noon. With a heavy toolbox and a bottle of wine. "For your trouble," he said as he handed her the bottle on her porch. Again his eyes were shaded, again he wore cutoffs, again the dog trotted after him. "I got busy and it got dark, so I didn't come back yesterday… if I'd had your number, I would have called."
"No problem," she assured him, though she didn't quite believe her own words. There was something disturbing about the man, something inertly sensual and, she sensed, dangerous.
Or was she just getting paranoid?
Had the surly detective's warnings convinced her not to trust anyone?
As Ty skirted the house and took the outside path to the lake, Samantha stashed the bottle of Riesling in the refrigerator and caught a glimpse of herself in the cut-glass mirror of her antique sideboard. Her cheeks had colored, and she could use some lipstick but refused to stoop to primping for the guy. He was a neighbor with a boat problem. Nothing more.
Nothing.
She caught up with him on the dock. He was already working with the engine, his fingers wrapped around a wrench, his muscles straining as he twisted an old nut. "You could have borrowed those from me, you know. I do have a few things—pliers, wrenches, a hammer."
"I suppose, but I knew these would work. Right size. They came with the boat." Glancing over his shoulder, he offered her a half smile. "I took the tools out yesterday when I was checking for a leak. Left 'em on my dock, then took her out for a spin." As if he anticipated some comment, he added, "I know, not the brightest thing I've ever done. But I didn't think I'd need the motor." He winced as he gave a bolt a final twist. "You don't have to say it. I know I'm an idiot."
"Simple mistake," she said.
"Simple man," he muttered under his breath, but she didn't believe him for a minute. She guessed there was nothing simple about Ty Wheeler; nothing simple at all. From the dock, the dog hopped lithely into the boat, took up a spot near the helm and lay down, head on his paws, brown eyes quietly assessing. Overhead, white clouds rolled slowly across a wide cerulean sky where a hawk circled lazily and the boom on the main sail slipped a little.
"Damn." Ty glanced at the mast, then back at her. "Wanna help?"
"Sure. But I'd better warn you, I'm not much of a sailor."
Ty slanted her a look. "Neither am I." His shirtsleeves were bunched over his elbows as he rocked back on his heels. "Think you can keep the boom steady for a couple of minutes?" he asked. "It keeps slippin'."
"I'll give it my best shot."
"It's heavy."
"I was a weight lifter in college."
His gaze swept up and down her body, and he swallowed a smile. "Yeah, right. I guess you never made it to the WWF, huh?"
"Okay, so I lied," she admitted, stepping aboard. "But I did play tennis."
"A killer shot at the net isn't going to help us much. There, now hold on to this." He placed her hands on the boom, then they both strained against the weight of it as he locked it into place once again.
"You okay?" Ty asked as he tested the lock. He pulled on the smooth wood. Sweat ran down the sides of his face, and he glared up at the rigging. The boom didn't budge. He glanced her way. "You can let go now."
Her arms ached a little. "Didn't realize how outta shape I was."
Again a quick glance down her body. "We got the job done." He removed his sunglasses long enough to swipe the sweat from his forehead and for the first time since she'd met him she was looking into dark hazel eyes—green-brown that shifted in the sunlight.' "Thanks." He shoved the shades up to the bridge of his nose again.
"You're more than welcome. Anytime you need to, pull in for repairs."
White teeth flashed. "Let's hope it's not too often." His gaze swept the deck of the Bright Angel. "Maybe God is telling me I'm not cut out to be a boat owner. You know the old saying? What's the second happiest day of a boat owner's Me?"
"I give. What?"
"The day he buys the boat. And what's the happiest day of his life?"
She waited.
"The day he sells it."
She threw him a smile and motioned to the sloop. "And I always thought guys had love affairs with these things."
"Some do. But a boat is just like a woman. You've got to find the right one. Sometimes you make a mistake. Other times you get lucky." He was staring at her through the dark lenses. Hard.
"And they say men are like cars—never perfect. Never coming with all
the right options."
"And what are those?" he asked.
"I don't think I know you well enough to say," she teased as she climbed off the sloop. Pain shot up her bad ankle, and she winced.
"Are you okay?"
"Just an old war wound kicking up." The pain lessened as she watched him fiddle with the engine. With pliers, wrenches and other tools she didn't recognize, he worked on the motor, tried to start the boat, wasn't satisfied with the sputter that commenced and leaned over the engine again. His old dog waited patiently in the shade of the wheel, brown eyes watching Ty.
Sam tried not to study the way his back curved or the fluidity of his tanned shoulders as he worked. Corded muscles flexed, then relaxed and his cutoffs gaped enough that she saw a slice of white just under his waistband.
Don't go there, she silently warned herself, you don't even know this guy. But she couldn't help noticing the way his thin lips flattened over his teeth or the narrowing of his eyes as he worked.
He tried the engine again and it sputtered unsteadily. "I suppose that's as good as it's gonna get until I take her in for major repairs," he grumbled as he reached under a seat, withdrew a rag and wiped his hands. His smile was irrepressible as he slapped the boom. "Yep, one hell of an investment."
"Could I get you anything? Some of the wine? Or a beer? If I look hard, I think I could even scrounge up a can of Coke." Detective Bentz's warnings about dealing with strangers and changing her locks echoed through her mind, but she steadfastly shoved the policeman's admonishments out of her head. At least for the time being. Until she learned more about this man.
He climbed off the boat. "I'd better take a rain check." He looked about to say something, then glanced toward the lake, where a fish jumped, silver scales catching in the sunlight, and seemed to think better of it.
"What?" she asked, intrigued.
"I probably shouldn't tell you this, but I ran into one of our neighbors the other day, the old lady across the street."
Sam groaned inwardly. "Don't tell me. She thought you should knock on my door with a box of chocolates or bottle of…" She let her voice fade, remembering the Riesling cooling in the fridge. "Oh. That's why…"