A Perfect Stranger

by Ryan, Jenna

  He laughed again, wetter this time. “Your P.I., me, the old lady down the hall. Whoever. Doesn’t matter to him how many die. Eye on the prize. That’s you.”

  More thunder rumbled beyond the window. Darcy harnessed her nerves. “Who is he?” she pressed. “Kazarov, I need a name.”

  He coughed thickly when he laughed. Except he wasn’t really laughing, and recognizing the difference made Darcy’s palms go damp.

  “Ethan,” he burbled. “Name’s Ethan Lyons.”

  Her heart gave several hard thumps. “Constantine Lyons,” she murmured. “You call him Conly.”

  “Smart girl,” Kazarov congratulated her. “Smarter still if you run straight from here to the cop shop. Really thought my plan’d work. Watch you, and the problem child would show. Catch him cold, bring him back, hush it up, bury it deep.”

  “Bring him back to his father or his grandfather?”

  Kazarov ignored her question and continued his rambling story.

  “Really good plan. Solid. But you and the P.I. kept screwing me up, so I could never follow him. Still not sure where he’s hiding out. Saw him near your house once, then, snap, gone.” He croaked out a chuckle. “Should’ve known I’d never catch him in the dark. Cat vision. Can’t beat that at night.”

  “Cat vision.” Darcy sifted through her memories of the attack in the bar washroom. “He told me he had cat vision,” she recalled. “He said it was in the genes.”

  “Old man’s was like a cat’s. Still has the predatory instincts, just not the eyes. Kid’s got ’em, though.”

  “Kid. His kid?”

  Kazarov sucked in a sudden breath. “Damn, that hurts. Hot knife…Grandkid,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Which one? Kazarov, tell me, which grandson?”

  “Youngest. Brain’s bad. So bad.”

  Darcy searched for the call button. She followed the line under the sheet, but couldn’t pry it out of his fingers. “Let go, and I’ll press it for you.”

  “Hot knife,” he said again. Darcy heard thunder, felt his body tighten. His fingers maintained their death grip on the button.

  “Kazarov,” she tried again, but halted when his eyes widened in alarm.

  Her own eyes locked on his chest beneath the sheet. She felt her breath stutter as blood began to seep through the cotton.

  She sensed a third presence a split second before she heard the rustle of fabric. An arm snaked around her from behind, and a brown teddy bear appeared. It had two holes in its smiling head.

  “Say hello to my beautiful lady, little guy. Sorry about the bullet holes, Darcy doll, but that guard outside had to go. And I think I did your suffering friend here a favor by shooting him.” His mouth moved to her ear. “It’s you and me now, gorgeous. No need for cutesy props.” He let the toy drop to the bed. “Turn around and kiss your real-life teddy bear.”

  MARLOWE DIDN’T REMEMBER much about leaving the station, only that it took far too long.

  His nerves were raw, his control teetering on the brink.

  The rain had come at last, and with a vengeance. Lightning split the night sky. Thunder shook the ground beneath his tires. The pavement was slick and more than one motorist had already spun into a freeway barrier.

  He got through to Val on his fifth attempt, but it was a weak connection at best.

  “Where’s Darcy?” were the first words out of his mouth.

  “She’s here. Somewhere. I left her with Kazarov and your informant. There was a guard outside the door. I…” His voice cracked and with it the lie. “Aw, man, I blew it, big-time. When I ran into Comet in the washroom, I knew, I just knew something was going to happen. And it did.”

  Marlowe swerved around a moving van. “Where, Val?”

  “I don’t know. Look, I’ve got a seriously wounded officer and a dead hit man. I’ve got Security combing the corridors. Two nurses saw her with an orderly. They think they’ve seen him before. They gave me a description but no name.”

  “I’ve got a name.” Marlowe checked the dashboard clock, forced his brain to function. “Real name, fake guy.”

  “You’re breaking up. Fake who…?”

  The line went dead. Marlowe tossed his phone aside.

  This wouldn’t go down at the hospital, he was sure of that. The guy had a plan, and he’d find a way to carry it out.

  But where?

  The question echoed in his head, so loud it almost drowned out the phone ringing beside him.

  “Marlowe?” Val shouted. “Are you there?”

  He came perilously close to sideswiping a van as he squealed around a corner. “She’s not at the hospital, Val. Tell the uniforms to keep looking, but meet me at the boardinghouse.”

  “But shouldn’t we be searching—”

  “We are. I ran into Hannah Brewster at the station tonight. It’s a long story, involving garrotes and shoes and bushes and cats. Just get in your car and meet me there. I’ll be in room four, sixth door on the right, second floor.”

  “Got it. Fifteen minutes. Are you sure about this?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Guy’s a pretender with a whole lotta luck on his side.” Squealing around another corner, Marlowe set his mind and his sights on Hannah Brewster’s boardinghouse. “That luck ends tonight.”

  “THEY’LL FIGURE IT OUT.” Darcy refused to let her voice tremble, a difficult feat with a gun pressed to the side of her neck.

  He’d whisked her out of the hospital through a side exit to his waiting car. Actually, it was Hannah Brewster’s car, but would a murderer care about stealing a vehicle?

  He’d used the teddy bear to hide his gun and a happy-go-lucky smile to mask his insanity.

  “Don’t make me do it here, Darcy doll,” he’d whispered as they’d walked. “I’ve been waiting for this for years. Got hard every night thinking about it.” He’d adopted the false twang. “You’re my one and only sugar pie, and I’m your U.S. male.” He’d laughed, lost the twang. “You gotta love Elvis, don’t you? The man had a song for every occasion.” He’d kissed her cheek from behind. When she’d shuddered, he’d laughed. “I know, Darcy doll. I’m all shivery with anticipation, too…”

  “Eight more blocks,” he told her now.

  A bolt of lightning shot to the ground. The thunder behind it made her hand shake on the steering wheel.

  Despite the cloying heat, Darcy’s teeth wanted to chatter. She had no idea where they were going and no way to communicate that destination to Marlowe even if she found out.

  Which, unfortunately, she would before much longer.

  “You drive real good, Darcy doll. I’ve watched you pull up to the curb lots of times. Watched you pull away, too. You like to go fast, but you’re not reckless. Now, me, I’m reckless. At least the doctors say I am. But I’m careful, too. Methodical and calculating.” He leaned over to whisper, “It’s in the genes.”

  “Like your cat vision.”

  “You were paying attention.” The idea seemed to delight him. “Turn right, lover doll. That’s another song, you know. Wait’ll you see what I’ve done. You’re gonna love it. Like I love you.”

  Darcy’s blood ran cold. Could she reason with him? Should she try, or simply play along and hope that something, anything, might distract him long enough for her to escape?

  Where was he taking her? Not the boardinghouse. The park, maybe? No, not in this weather.

  The gun jabbed her shoulder as she splashed through a pothole. She couldn’t help jerking her head sideways when he attempted to kiss the hurt better.

  Lightning flashed again, and she saw his mouth turn down. “Don’t do that! You’re with me now. That makes you mine. If you want something, get it, that’s what the old man says. So I got. You. Only thing I’ve ever wanted. And you want me, right? Say it, Darcy doll. You want me.”

  She swallowed the icy lump in her throat. “I want you.”

  “Then why haven’t you asked how I did it?” He wiped his upper lip—not a good sign. “How I tricked her.
”

  “You mean Hannah? I thought—”

  “No, you didn’t. You never think about me, do you? You let him touch you, but not me. Why not? Turn left. Don’t you want to know?”

  She struggled for a believable smile. “Yes, of course I do. I want to know everything. Tell me how clever you are, Ethan.”

  He blinked and stared at her. “You know my real name.” He scooted as close as he could in Hannah’s little Escort. “Was I wrong? Did you wonder about me?”

  “Yes, I did. Often.”

  “You were curious, so you used your skills, and you dug. This is so cool. Turn left. You love me.” A sly light appeared in his eyes. “You do love me, right?”

  The gun tickled her neck. “I do,” she said. “I love you.”

  Bending over, he nuzzled her jaw. This time, she held her breath and her position.

  “The old man sent me to Oregon to learn about business conferences. That’s how I found you. You looked at me from inside the TV, and you said, ‘I want to be yours.’ I’m sure that’s what you told me. The old man said you didn’t, but what does he know about love? Or my father? I mean, he sees sparkling lights and hears funny whispers and hides under his bed during thunderstorms.”

  Darcy ground her teeth so hard she thought they’d crack. “You’re lucky you didn’t inherit your father’s tendencies.”

  “No, I’m like the old man. An opportunist with cat vision. I love wearing disguises, and I can act, too. And eavesdrop. You learn a lot by eavesdropping. I learned about Umer Lugo’s plan to find me through you after I left the hospital. I hung around and listened at grandfather’s window. That took balls, don’t you think? Anyway, Lugo was going to hire a P.I. to find you because, me being obsessed and all, he figured I’d try to find you. He thought he could get to you first, and nail me when I made my move.”

  “That’s very perceptive of you, Ethan.”

  “I know. Even better to follow Lugo around. Learn what he learns. Marlowe—man, I wish I could’ve killed him—does his job. Lugo flies to Philly. But being Lugo and kinda paranoid, he goes all low-profile at a roadside motel, because, in case I’m onto him, which I am, would I think to look for him in a dive? He figures no, but ding, ding, Umer, I heard the chitter chatter at the old man’s house. I know the plan. I plan to disrupt the plan. I hear Lugo and Marlowe talking in a Turkish restaurant. ‘Here’s where the Darcy doll lives, Lugo.’ ‘Great. Here’s your money, Marlowe.’ And I say, ‘Here’s your chance, Ethan.’ Gotta kill Lugo first, though. Turn right.”

  Darcy’s head swam. Insanity was merely a jumping-off point for this guy.

  “So you discovered where I lived,” she said with forced calm. “And then you discovered Hannah’s boardinghouse.”

  “Right across from your house.” He beamed at her. “Decided to get me a room.” He made a knocking motion. “Tap, tap on the door. Big smile. Hannah stares. I stare back. She starts to laugh. Pulls me inside. Why I’m Cousin Arden’s middle boy, aren’t I? Am I? I keep smiling. She keeps talking.” Using the tip of the gun, he tucked Darcy’s hair behind her ear. “Opportunity, sugar pie. And fate. They were walking hand in hand for me that day. Now stop the car, and turn off the lights, ’cause, baby, we’re here. Ethan’s gonna love his Darcy doll tender tonight.”

  Darcy ordered herself to breathe. Because, God help her, she knew what would happen after the loving.

  Ethan Lyons, aka Cristian Turner, was going to kill her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The power was out. It must have been out for some time, because there was no sign of Hannah’s sports-addicted husband at the boardinghouse.

  Marlowe didn’t care where Eddie’d gone, only where he was going two stairs at a time. Up to Cristian—no, scratch that—Ethan Lyons’s room.

  Once he’d relayed the description, Val’s captain had made some angry calls to Los Angeles and come back with a name. Released on a day pass from a California mental hospital, Ethan Lyons, youngest grandson of Constantine Lyons, had pulled an R.J. Wilkie and vanished.

  Somehow he’d posed as Hannah’s cousin’s son, though how he’d known to try remained a mystery. Bottom line, he’d done it. Slipped into the perfect disguise and worn it until the opportunity to snatch Darcy arose.

  Fear was a lead weight in Marlowe’s stomach. He reached Lyons’s locked door, gave it a kick. When it didn’t budge, he pulled his gun and shot the latch.

  Lightning momentarily illuminated the room. Close on its heels, thunder rocked the old foundation.

  In his mind, all Marlowe could see was Darcy.

  Stuffing his gun away, he shone a flashlight over the walls. There were three store-bought Amish prints and one larger propped canvas that looked as if someone had mashed baby peas into it with his hands. So much for the budding Oklahoma artist.

  Angling the beam downward, Marlowe spied a backpack and bulky duffel bag. He went for the pack first.

  “You here, Marlowe?” Val’s voice drifted up the staircase.

  “In Lyons’s room.” Dumping the contents, he made a quick scan. Nothing but charcoal pencils, a bag of broken cookies and a sketchpad with dog-eared corners.

  A light bobbed on the wall as he reached for the duffel.

  “Comet’s outside watching the front door.” Val squatted next to him. “You got anything?”

  “Props.” Marlowe brought his eyes and his flashlight up. “Wigs, mustache, putty. You said a pair of nurses recognized him from the hospital?”

  “Apparently your guy’s been doing volunteer work there. No idea why.”

  “Depends when he started.” Marlowe identified the closet door, stood. “My guess is he signed on after Matilda was admitted. She saw him in the park the night I was shot.”

  “And the wigs and things?”

  “He could have bought those things after she saw him. Or he decided not to bother with a disguise in the dark, figured the shadows would hide him well enough.”

  “Enough for what? So he could kill Darcy? If he’s obsessed with her, why would he want to shoot her before he—Uh, well, you know.”

  Marlowe grimaced. “He wasn’t gunning for Darcy that night. I’m the one he wanted. Jealousy, Val. I was with her. He wasn’t.”

  “Except he missed. He had to run. And while running, slammed into the old woman, who probably got a real good look at him on that lighted path—Wait, what’re you doing?”

  This as Marlowe drew his gun and shot the closet door.

  “It was locked.”

  Val stayed well back from him. “You’re PO’d at me, aren’t you?”

  Kicking a mound of clothes away, Marlowe pointed his flashlight at the inside walls. “I haven’t got time to be pissed off. But when I do, I will be. At you and me.”

  “Why at yourself? Holy—” Val stopped abruptly on the threshold, crossed his beam over Marlowe’s. “There’s a couple hundred pictures of Darcy in here.”

  The tightening in Marlowe’s chest cinched his ribs, too, then climbed up into his throat. From the myriad photos, he could see that Lyons hadn’t simply watched Darcy through the media, he’d stalked her with his own camera.

  “How the hell close did you get?” he wondered aloud as his eyes landed on a shot of Darcy in a white lace bra and a matching thong. He shot a murderous look into the bedroom. “There has to be something. Go through his pockets, Val. I’ll take the desk and dresser.”

  The elements outside continued to clash. No lights burned in the vicinity.

  Keeping Darcy’s face front and center in his mind, Marlowe searched the desk. He found a stack of paperbacks and two empty bags of chips.

  The dresser was much the same. He was tugging on the third drawer when he noticed a scrap of newspaper taped to the mirror. There was a street name and number scribbled on it.

  Snatching it free, he frowned. “Val, do you know Faldo Road?”

  “Better than I want to. Amateur chemists cook up their street drugs in those houses.”

  Marlowe ran the
address through his head. Why did he recognize it?

  He heard a woman’s voice talking about a house on Faldo Road. Whose voice? Not Darcy’s.

  It clicked with the next peal of thunder. Hannah Brewster.

  Val emerged from the closet. “Did you say something?”

  Marlowe ran the name again, and the memory attached to it. Hannah and her husband owned three properties. Two on this street and one on Faldo Road.

  “Call Blydon.” Marlowe checked his backup gun. “Tell him 927 Faldo. Tell him I’m going in.”

  “We’re going in.”

  “You’ve been drinking, Val.” Marlowe headed for the stairs, but Val trotted after him.

  “I’m not drunk. And I swear to you, after tonight, I never will be again.”

  Shoving the clip in as he ran, Marlowe tucked his gun away. “Just so you know,” he said, “Darcy comes first.”

  This time, he vowed, he wouldn’t fail.

  THE HOUSE WAS A WRECK, with crumbling plaster, broken fixtures and cobwebbed dust on every surface.

  Darcy wouldn’t have seen any of it if he hadn’t lit candles every few feet. He nudged her at gunpoint up the ratty staircase to a second-floor bedroom. Once there, he leaned on the door to close it and used a taper to feed another dozen wicks.

  The room smelled like old wood, roses and mold. Damp from the storm combined with the already high humidity to make the air almost unbreathable. Spying a window, Darcy immediately edged toward it.

  “It’s nailed shut, Darcy doll.” He hummed while he lit the last of the candles. Then swung around, spread his arms and beamed with pride. “What do you think?” He indicated the walls where he’d stapled hundreds of photos of her. All doctored to include him. “Pictures of you right next to pictures of me. I went to Stanford, you know. Didn’t graduate, but that’s a long story involving a guy who thought Elvis sucked. Not sure if he left the hospital on foot or got wheeled down to cold storage. Oh, well.”

  Darcy eyed the door. “I, uh, see you’ve decorated Graceland style.” The room was cluttered with heavy drapes and over-the-top furnishings.