by Rita Herron
Mark couldn’t rule out Claire’s patients, either. Half of them were taking narcotics. They could have stolen a key to a pharmaceutical cabinet, talked an orderly into giving them extra drugs or obtained them on the streets.
Claire wouldn’t like his questioning them, but she couldn’t keep quiet and let another woman die.
He checked his watch, determined to arrive back at the center before Claire had to leave for the show. He didn’t want her going anywhere alone.
A few minutes later he strode into her office, spoke to her secretary and claimed a seat. He thought through the details of the case while he waited, hoping to detect some link they hadn’t noticed before but nothing registered. He phoned Devlin, but his co-worker confirmed that the case was at a standstill.
Frustration tightened Mark’s shoulders as he realized another attack was imminent. The press had issued warnings again to all the single women in Savannah and the neighboring islands to avoid going out alone, and extra police had been brought in to stake out the beaches. But catching the guy in the act was a long shot. They needed definitive evidence.
The door opened, and Claire walked through the doorway, her head lowered as she spoke to a young woman. The woman thanked her, then bypassed Mark without looking his way. It took a special sort of person to deal with the emotionally unstable patients Claire counseled.
“Claire, can we talk before we go to the station?”
She stiffened at the sound of his voice. “Sure, come in.”
She walked back to her desk and took a seat, and he claimed the chair opposite her desk. “Mark, I’m sorry for this morning.”
He knotted his hands, not ready to discuss their personal history yet. “We’ve pretty much reached a dead end with the suspect list. We need to look seriously at your patients.”
She gripped the desk edge, then finally nodded. “I can’t give you their files.”
He had studied the problem on the way over, and they were still waiting on a court order. “All right, but let me see a list of male patients. I’ll call out their names. If you think I should explore them, nod yes. If you don’t feel they fit the profile, shake your head no.”
Claire visibly relaxed. “I suppose that would be all right.” A second later, she handed him a printout of her male patients. Only five fit the age range they believed to be the killer’s.
“Chris Huet.”
She shook her head no.
“Dan Buckner.” No. “Randy Turst.” No. “Joel Sanger.”
She paused, then gave a clipped nod.
“Richard Wheaton?”
other nod.
“All right, thanks for your cooperation.”
“Is that it?”
“Yes, are you ready to go to the station?”
“Yes, let me get my things.”
She reached for her purse and cane, and his heart squeezed again. This morning they’d seemed to be getting closer, but now the distance gaped even further between them, like a canyon he’d never be able to cross.
“GOOD EVENING, this is Dr. Claire Kos and you’re listening to Calling Claire. Tonight we’re going to talk about unconditional love.” Claire paused. “Unconditional love means loving someone even though they’re not perfect, even when they make mistakes. It also means sacrificing for the one you love. Perhaps those of you who have relationships where you feel you have unconditional love might want to share with us.”
The first two callers relayed stories about sacrificing their own careers to put their husbands through school. “That is love,” Claire said. “But don’t forget, ladies, that in a relationship both people should sacrifice. If you’ve totally given up the things that are important to you, then you may resent that person later. You also may become someone different, someone less interesting than the person you once were. So don’t sacrifice yourself. For a healthy relationship, both parties should be willing to compromise.”
Maureen, a thirty-something stay-at-home mother, phoned in next. “I didn’t understand unconditional love until I had children. But now, well, let’s just say there’s nothing my kids could do that would change my love for them.”
Claire felt a pang of envy. “Most mothers feel that way,” she said, although her own hadn’t, and neither had the parents of some of her patients. “You can teach your child about that kind of love by being a role model, and by reassuring them that even when they disappoint you, and they will disappoint you at times, you still love them.”
“You’re right. I learned that from my own mother. I’m going to call her right now and thank her.”
A few more women phoned in to talk about their unconditional love for their children, each one reminding Claire of her unborn baby. Sometimes she wondered if she would have had a boy or a girl, and if her child would have had Mark’s striking dark hair and eyes or her own fair coloring.
The buzzer signal dinged again, and she answered the line, her nerves beginning to fray the closer it drew to midnight. “Hello, this is Claire.”
“Claire,” a male voice said in a muffled tone. “Your mother didn’t love you that way, did she? She thought you were a bad girl.”
Claire froze, then motioned for Mark and Bailey to make certain they switched the call to a private line, and that they recorded and traced the call.
“How do you know what my mother said to me?” Claire asked.
“Because you told me, Claire,” he whispered. “I know all your secrets.”
Her heart pounded. What did he mean, she had told him? She never talked about her past…except right after the accident. Even then, she’d seen a female doctor.
“I don’t have secrets,” Claire said, tensing even more at his bitter laugh.
“Oh, yes, you do, and I know them.” His voice dropped to an eerie whisper. “I know why you lost your sight.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “Who is this?”
“But even blind, you see the good in people don’t you, Claire?” he said, ignoring her. “In your patients, even if they’re really, really bad.”
“Yes, I believe everyone has good inside of them.”
“Even if they’re ugly on the outside?”
“Physical looks aren’t important,” Claire said. “And if you tell me where to meet you, I’ll prove it to you.”
Suddenly music piped in over the phone, the soft strains of a lullaby. Claire’s heart clenched.
He knew her secrets. He knew why she couldn’t see. Oh, God. He knew about the baby….
“Who is this?” she demanded. “Stop being a coward and tell me your name.”
The phone went silent, the soft lullaby echoing in her mind.
Claire couldn’t take any more. She had to get out of there. Take a break. Forget the grating sound of that sick man’s voice.
She dropped the earphones and stumbled from the room.
“Claire, wait!” Mark called.
“No…I have to go to the ladies’ room.” She grabbed her cane and hurried down the hall, tears streaming down her face. Who could be doing this to her? And why taunt her with the memory of her lost child?
Feeling nauseous, Claire hurried into the bathroom, leaned over the sink, anguished sobs wracking her body. Footsteps clattered behind her. Someone had followed her inside the bathroom. “Mark?”
Heavy breathing echoed in reply.
Panic slammed into Claire. She swung her cane in front of her, and tried to run. But the man lunged forward, caught her and threw her up against the wall, then pressed a hand over her mouth, drowning out the sound of her cry. She batted at him with the cane, but he grabbed it and flung it across the room. The sound of it pinging off the wall reminded her of how helpless she’d become.
Seconds later, he dragged her out the door and into the stairwell. The scent of that medical cream made her dizzy, but she struggled anyway. Determined to escape, she brought her leg up and kicked backward, slamming into his kneecap.
He yelped and his legs buckled, but he tightened his grip on he
r. She screamed and they both went crashing down the stairs.
Chapter Twelve
The signal died just before Mark could trace it. He assumed it was another throwaway cell phone, and hoped the police staked out on the various beaches might pick up something.
His instincts on alert, he thanked Bailey, then strode down the hall to the ladies’ room. He was worried about Claire. The stress and pressure were getting to her. She felt responsible for these other women which was totally unfair. She had her own demons to deal with.
He hadn’t helped any by succumbing to his own hurt earlier and laying guilt at her feet. If she hadn’t trusted him, then maybe she’d felt she had a reason.
Maybe he was to blame.
He knocked on the ladies’ room door. “Claire?” No answer. He knocked again. “Claire, it’s Mark. Are you all right?”
Again, no answer.
Fear slammed into him, and he knocked louder, then opened the door. “Claire, are you in here?” When she didn’t reply, he stormed inside and checked the stalls. “Claire!” It was empty.
Then he saw her cane lying on the floor, and his heart nearly stopped.
He jerked himself out of his stupor and rushed outside, checked the station room to see if she had returned. Bailey shook his head, looking harried with the program and perplexed that Claire had run out.
“Alert security,” Mark yelled as he ran down the hall. He spotted the stairwell door swinging, and peered inside, his gun drawn. “Claire?”
A muffled cry floated through the silence. “Claire?”
“Mark!”
He heard her voice, then footsteps running down the stairs. He jumped the steps two at a time. Hurtling around the landing, he raced down the next set, his heart in his throat. Claire was trying to stand up, holding on to the wall, her skirt and hair disheveled. She swung her arms in an arc to orient herself. He launched over the last step and helped her stand.
“Mark,” she said in a choked voice. “He was here. He grabbed me!”
Mark’s heart leapt to his throat. He searched the stairwell but saw nothing. Rage flew through him as he dragged Claire into his arms and held her tight.
What would he do if he lost her again?
THE NEXT HOUR passed in a blur for Claire as Mark hustled her to the station room and checked with security. Detective Black and the local law enforcement had arrived on the scene in minutes, combing the surrounding area. But the station was set in downtown Savannah. If the killer had snuck out, he could have slipped into the crowd of summer tourists and any number of restaurants or bars unnoticed.
The security guards hadn’t caught anyone entering or exiting. Mark ordered them to recheck the tapes, although he was afraid it was fruitless. He didn’t know how the killer was getting into the building without being detected, but he had—twice.
Drew ran in, frantic. “My God, Claire, are you all right?”
She nodded, still shaken.
“Where were you?” Mark asked.
“Downstairs preparing for the morning show,” Drew said.
“Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts?” Mark asked.
Claire tensed.
“I can’t believe this!” Drew’s voice rose in anger. “You think I’d hurt Claire?”
“I have to account for everyone in the building,” Mark said. “And the last time Claire received a call, you weren’t upstairs with her.”
Claire frowned and pulled at Mark’s hand. “Mark—”
“I’m just doing my job,” Mark barked. “Can anyone account for you?”
“The coproducer,” Drew said. “Check with him yourself.”
Mark phoned downstairs. Just as Drew said, the coproducer verified his story. Drew was not the killer.
Mark clutched Claire’s hand. “Come on, I’m taking you home.”
Claire couldn’t help herself. She clung to Mark, hating the darkness. Yet, she was trapped there with the memories. And now the voices of the dying women crying for help, the voice of the killer whispering that they were bad girls.
The voice of the man who knew her secrets.
Secrets she had yet to share with Mark.
A security guard spoke in a clear tone, “We’ll review the tapes again and see if we can come up with anything. But so far, there’s nothing suspicious.”
“Call me on my cell if you do.” Mark pulled Claire to a standing position. “Let’s go.” She didn’t argue. It was already past one o’clock and she was exhausted.
Had the killer left her and gone in search of another victim?
She shivered and Mark wrapped an arm around her, cradling her close as they walked to the car. Their earlier interlude was forgotten, although tension of another kind brewed between them.
Claire had almost been abducted by the killer. She could have died….
Mark stroked her hand over and over as he drove, his breathing unsteady. She clung to his fingers, grateful to have the human contact. She didn’t want to be alone tonight.
She didn’t want Mark to leave her.
The sounds of traffic and the radio calmed her slightly, then Mark parked and she tensed again. “You don’t think he came here, do you?”
“No, he took enough chances tonight. He’s probably holed up some place waiting for the police to disperse.” She reached for the car door and he gripped her hand. “But I’ll check the cottage first. Wait here and lock the door.”
Claire clutched his hand. “No…please let me go
“Claire—”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
A long silence stretched between them. She wondered if Mark realized her comment was an invitation. He had no idea how much that cost her.
“I don’t plan to leave you alone,” he said in a gruff voice.
The car door squeaked open, and he came around for her. She grabbed her cane, but allowed him to take her hand this time, and they walked up the sidewalk together. He found himself silently counting the steps, acclimating to the way Claire walked. When they reached the cottage, she handed him her key and let him unlock the door. He led her inside slowly, careful to keep her behind him. She sensed that he’d drawn his gun and felt marginally better knowing Mark was there to protect her.
Five minutes later, he’d searched the entire house and found it empty. A few minutes later, Mark spotted a bottle of merlot she had in the kitchen and poured her a glass. “Here, drink this. It might help you relax.”
She didn’t argue. She swirled the liquid in the glass, then took a sip and savored the tart taste. “Are you having one?”
“I don’t want wine,” Mark said.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have anything stronger—”
“I don’t want alcohol at all,” he said in a gruff voice. “I want you, Claire.”
Claire’s breath rushed upward, then got trapped in her chest.
Without another word, he took the glass from her, then dragged her into his arms and kissed her.
NO SOONER had Mark touched Claire than he felt his control slipping. Once he’d thought he’d loved her, but nothing compared to the emotions he felt at the moment.
She had almost been kidnapped by a madman tonight. A madman who was killing innocent women, one who’d chosen Claire as the target of his demented games.
A man who might have killed her or done God knew what, had she not fought back.
He teased her lips apart with his tongue and explored her mouth, driven by need and the desire to feel her come alive in his arms. He desperately wanted to erase the darkness she lived in, but he couldn’t.
He could make her forget the horrifying memory of her earlier attack though, if just for a little while. And he could chase away his own demons with the feel of her lush body against his and bury the pain of losing her by easing himself inside her once again.
Heat blazed between them as he walked her back to her bedroom. Then he undressed her, tossed her skirt to the floor, and stared at her soft, delicate bare skin in the moonlight. Her c
urves taunted him, her scent intoxicated him, and his sex surged, begging for release.
“Mark?” Her voice sounded suddenly shy, unsure, and he realized he had the advantage. She could no longer look at his body, see the desire and hunger in his eyes.
“You are so” he whispered in a guttural tone. “My God, Claire, I couldn’t stand to lose you again.”
She wet her lips and his legs nearly buckled.
Then she reached out a slender hand, inviting him to her bed. He accepted it, feeling almost reverent.
Lowering her to the duvet, he cradled the back of her neck, and tasted the salty sweetness of her skin, then nibbled at the sensitive shell of her ear, then lower, to lick along her breasts. The soft mounds bulged over the lace bra she wore, but he left it in place, first teasing and suckling her through the flimsy barrier until she bucked and threaded her hands in his hair. He brought the tips to hard points, driving them both insane, and finally, unveiled them to lick her bare skin.
“Mark, you feel so good.”
“I love the way you taste,” he whispered in the darkness. “In the desert, I used to wake up hard, dreaming about you.”
He suckled her harder, lifting and kneading her breasts until she moved her leg in between his.
She raked his back with her hands then pushed him to his knees. “Take off your clothes,” Claire murmured. “I want to feel you, touch you, hold you.”
He did as she asked, tossing his shirt and jeans to the floor. Claire rose to her knees, her rose-tipped breasts swaying gently as she slid her hands to his face. He froze, the air trapped in his lungs as she touched his jaw. He wondered what she was thinking, if she still remembered what he looked like.
She ran her fingers over his eyes, across his cheeks, then along his jawbone. “You always had such strong cheekbones,” she whispered. “So commanding. Powerful.”
His lips parted in a deep breath as she gently caressed his face. She was seeing him through her touch, he realized, memorizing the details. He’d never imagined how erotic it might be to rely on his other sensations, but without sight, her sense of touch and smell must be heightened.