Come Hell or High Desire

by Misty Dietz

  Zack cut the A/C and rolled his window down. It was only ten-fourteen p.m., but night had fallen uneasily. The streets remained dry, though lightning bucked restlessly in the clouds. More unsettled weather for the third day in a row.

  Suited his state of mind perfectly.

  With every mile he put between Sloane and himself, his chest wound tighter. They’d spent the whole day together, going through the motions of monitoring their individual workplaces, feeding Ann’s stray cat, checking up on his dogs, reading the alternating anguish and joy in Ann’s journal that left them no closer to any answers, and after the five o’clock news, fielding the inevitable phone calls from people expressing their horror over Tori and the now publicly missing Ann.

  Less than an hour ago, they’d shared a quiet meal at Sloane’s and had fallen asleep on the couch, too exhausted to function any longer. He’d slept maybe thirty minutes before his mind started spinning again. She had murmured when he gently moved away from her, tucking a blanket around her and leaving one last kiss on her lips before he left, double checking the lock behind him.

  He would never forget this morning in her arms. It was one of the most generous gifts he’d ever received because he’d never felt closer to another human being. He felt her. Felt her down deep where he didn’t know if he’d ever get her out.

  It was a dangerous path to tread.

  She’s nothing like Kasey.

  No, but he’d only known Sloane for a couple days.

  Extraordinary days, though. Christ, he’d practically crawled around in her head.

  But still. Two days.

  Jesus.

  Being with her messed with his mind. Even so, he hadn’t wanted to leave her, but one of her questions kept nagging at him.

  What if there was a second journal? One that continued where the first one left off? In the first one, Ann hadn’t known she was pregnant. At least she hadn’t written about it yet.

  But…if there was a second journal, why would she have thrown away only the first one? Why did she throw it away? Or did someone else?

  If there was a second journal, he had to find it.

  He stopped a few condos down from Ann’s and killed the headlights. Before he even stepped foot on the grass, the back of his neck tingled. A faint light spilled through her picture window, but he hadn’t left any lights on this afternoon. He was sure of it. He switched off the truck’s dome lights, retrieved a Bradley butterfly knife from the glove box, and clipped the sheath to his jeans before slipping into the smothering night.

  He crept around to the back of Ann’s condo and peered into the darkened window of the guest room. The light was coming from Ann’s room. His breathing kicked up another notch. Was she back? He ducked down and shifted in the bushes by the house until he was positioned next to the patio door. The shades were drawn. Something she would surely do. Someone was banging drawers as though putting clean laundry away.

  Or looking for something.

  He stood upright in front of her patio door, his hand raised in midair to pound on the glass when an icy sensation drifted through him.

  Sloane? He felt her presence strongly. He spun, expecting to see her standing there, eyes spitting sparks, but in the next flash of lightning he saw nothing but manicured lawn, the grass spikes silvery.

  The banging stopped. Zack stepped away from the door and pressed himself against the cool stucco, straining to hear. The sudden crack of a bullet blistered his ears. A scream.

  A man’s scream.

  Zack pulled his knife and dove for the ground as two more shots followed in quick succession. He squeezed the knife’s handle in his fist, making himself take large, quiet gulps of air.

  Was Ann in there, too? He felt for his cell to dial 911, but it wasn’t on him. Shit. Must’ve gotten snagged in the bushes.

  He positioned himself next to the guest bedroom window again and used the knife to jimmy the window open wide enough that he could shred the screen. He reached in and turned the lever to open the window. Suddenly he heard a dull scraping noise.

  Adrenaline kicked through his veins. He’d heard the sound before. Like a body being dragged across the floor. He slid through the window, dropping quietly to the floor in the dark room. He edged toward the door as a ski-masked figure clad in head-to-toe black moved in the hallway. The person was tall, but he had maybe twenty pounds on the guy. Zack lunged, taking them both to the ground. The intruder grunted, his gun skittering across the wood floor to slide under a heavy credenza.

  Zack grappled for the ski mask, but the man gave a fierce thrust with powerful legs. Zack flew back, cracking his head against the wall. He didn’t have time to catch his breath before his assailant came at him, landing a bruising round house to his ribs and then bending low to charge him.

  Zack bent in half at the explosion of pain in his chest and brought his knee up with everything he had. The man grunted and briefly grabbed his midsection before quickly recovering.

  Zack reached for his knife but the sheath was empty. He slid to the credenza, fingers sweeping the floor for the gun. Feeling the cool metal in his hands, he rolled away, narrowly missing a bludgeoning by a heavy silver sculpture.

  The intruder came at him again, and Zack scrambled to his haunches, sighting the pistol between the bastard’s eyes. His finger tightened on the trigger in an agony of indecision. He’d fought so much during his life. Would he never be free of it?

  Survive or surrender?

  Survive. Sloane’s word whispered through his mind as the man’s yell tore through the hall. The black-clothed figure lunged and then spun about, flailing his arms to dislodge a gray mass on his back. The cat!

  Zack angled the gun down for a non-critical wound and fired. The intruder crumpled against the wall, and Zack ran into the fully lit bedroom, blinking against the sudden brightness.

  “Ann! Ann!” Her room was torn asunder. The dresser spewed drawers, the mattress sagged off the box spring, and the bottom half of the closet was ransacked where John had told Ann to store the four gray totes he went to the grave without explaining to either of them. Papers spewed onto the carpeted floor from one of the totes, but he left it lying there and nearly tripped over a body when he came around the other side of the closet island.

  A man. Insensate brown eyes gaped at the ceiling, three holes marring his pressed ivory dress shirt.

  Distant thunder rumbled through Zack’s chest. In death the handsome man looked so young—his smooth, clean nails and callous-free palms so unlike his own. Zack gripped the edge of the island to steady himself. This was the man who’d driven up to Divine Shepherd Lutheran in a Lexus.

  The man who’d likely fathered Ann’s baby. Dallan O’Neill.

  What was he doing here? And who was the guy in the hall? What had either of them been looking for?

  And where, God, is Ann?

  He inhaled deeply, feeling pain in his ribs. He brought his arm up gingerly to test the movement when a sick feeling washed over him. What if he’d hit a major artery in the intruder’s leg and all the answers bled out with him?

  He rushed back into the hallway, finding nothing but some faint drops of blood leading outside.

  He stood at the door, peering out into the darkness. No! How?

  He needed to call someone. But who? The police? How the hell was he supposed to explain all this?

  But the time for thinking was over.

  Police cars screamed down the street, sirens blaring, lights spinning, the red and blue an oddly beautiful accompaniment to the pulses of lightning that arced through the sky.

  Zack stood in the doorway, backlit from the carnage of Ann’s house. Police officers drew their guns behind cover of their car doors and yelled for him to drop his weapon.

  Only then did he remember he still held the gun.

  A profound stillness gripped him.

  The gun clattered to the floor.

  He said nothing—did nothing—when they tackled him and yanked his arms behind his back. The m
etal cuffs that pulled at his wrists were cold. Unyielding. But nothing compared to the fire in his ribs.

  In his conscience.

  Ann…John…Sloane. I’m sorry.

  Somehow he felt Sloane’s presence again, but this time, he blocked her, shame burning a wasteland through his hope.

  One of the officers, bow-legged and with heavy lines bracketing his mouth, stood watch over him as the others briskly went through the rooms. Zack could hear him radio for the crime scene techs. His mind grasped for options, but he couldn’t seem to free himself from a fathomless well of negativity. Why bother trying to explain? It hadn’t worked last time.

  This time, they’ll lock you away forever.

  He’d rather die trying to escape than waste away in prison. Feeling cold all over, he looked around the room, assessing his options.

  …

  Sloane nearly went on two wheels around the corner, but hell if she was going to slow down. If the cops were following her, all the better. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she blinked hard to clear her vision.

  She’d woken up alone, a deep, inexplicable fear beating at her. Mindlessly, she’d raced into her bedroom closet and pulled down a carved mahogany chest. Inside was a black tourmaline nestled in red felt. It was supposed to help focus her telepathic energies. She hadn’t given it a second look since the day her mother had presented it to her on her twentieth birthday.

  Without thinking, she’d grabbed the smooth stone and gasped at the images that suddenly exploded in her mind. Zack going through Ann’s window. Struggling for his life. Finding the body. The police coming… Oh God, he’d reached out to her.

  Don’t be sorry, Zack! Please don’t give up!

  And then…nothing. Try as she might, she couldn’t reach him. Couldn’t feel him.

  She squinted through the windshield, flew through a red light, and prayed that somehow she’d be able to help in time. Two more blocks. Her heart stuttered when she turned the final corner and saw the circus of police vehicles and nervous neighbors.

  She flew out of her SUV without bothering to shut the door and bolted across two lawns to Ann’s. They’d already set up the yellow tape with police stationed to keep people away. She ducked under and ran until she was clothes-lined by an officer.

  “Zack! Zack!” She scrambled off grass, trying to peel the officer’s fingers from her arm. “Let me go! I have information!”

  “Don’t you fucking touch her!” Zack staggered to his feet, lips twisting in a snarl, triceps bulging as he struggled against the handcuffs behind his back.

  Another cop stepped in front of him, addressing the officer who held her. “Giles, bring her here.”

  Sloane hurried into the living room to stand in front of Zack. She took in the gashes on his face, the empty look in his eyes. How she ached to take him in her arms.

  He looked away, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  Pain in her midsection made her gasp. “You’re hurt!”

  “Don’t cry for me, Goldie.”

  “Someone has to!”

  He hung his head. That scared her more than anything.

  “Ready to talk, eh, Goldman?” It was the officer who’d intercepted her.

  “He needs a doctor!” She reached out to touch the sleeve of the wiry officer who was clearly in charge of guarding Zack. “Officer…Janklow. Please help him.” In her heeled sandals she had about seven inches on him, and by God, she’d send him packing if he didn’t help Zack.

  The lines around Janklow’s mouth deepened. He patted her hand. “Listen, Ms…”

  “Sloane.”

  “Ms. Sloane. Mr. Goldman will receive medical attention soon.”

  “Not soon enough! Making him sit here and suffer after all he’s been through is barbaric.”

  “Sloane, it’s just a bruise. You need to go. Right now.”

  She swung to face Zack. “You shut up since you can’t seem to help yourself.” She turned back to Janklow, who was saved a second tongue lashing when another officer came into the room. His assessing blue eyes swept over the scene, lingering on Zack. He turned toward Janklow and jerked his head at Zack. “Take him back to the station.”

  “Yes, sir.” Janklow took Zack’s arm. Sloane’s heart stuttered and then pounded against her chest like it was ready to burst free of its skin and bone captivity. “No, wait! Sergeant Bradley. I know what happened here. You must listen!”

  He raised an eyebrow, and Sloane could have sworn he was about to smile, but he only nodded. “Your name?”

  “Sloane Swift. I own Ski—ah, I’m a business owner in town. My father is Dr. Henry Swift, and my mother is Veronica Bell Swift. She works with the FBI…as a psychic.” Her face heated, but she pressed on. “I can…see things, too, and I’d like to help here.” Her tongue felt like fly paper. She noted the swelling around Zack’s eyes, the cuts on the lips that had made her body sing, and felt her backbone slide into place. She swallowed hard and met Bradley’s eyes. “Please. Hear me out.”

  A tech came into the living room to take pictures of the blood streaks on the floor. Sergeant Bradley gave Sloane his attention. “How long have you known Mr. Goldman?”

  She blanched. “Since Sunday morning, sir, but Ann works for me and—”

  Bradley held up a hand. “I’m sorry, Ms. Swift, but I have other things to do here. If you’ll follow Officer Giles, he’ll take your statement.”

  “No! You aren’t listening. There’s a killer out there. I saw him! He’s got to be the same man who killed Tori Daily!”

  “Enough, Ms. Swift. Mr. Goldman was holding the gun that took the life of Pastor—” He stopped abruptly, realizing his blunder. “Ah, shit. Take her—”

  Sergeant Bradley’s lips continued moving, but Sloane didn’t hear another word. The room swam in darkness a moment as she fought her way back to coherence.

  He’d said pastor. In light of everything, that could only mean Dallan O’Neill.

  Murdered? By whom? The same person who killed Tori? There were two different MOs for the kill, though. So did Dallan kill Tori, then meet his own death from the man who’d attacked Zack? And where was Ann?

  The only thing Sloane knew for certain was that Zack was innocent. She looked at him and felt her bones hollow. “Zack! Tell them there was another man here when you arrived.” She spun toward Sergeant Bradley. “The other man was the one who killed Dallan O’Neill, not Zack!”

  “Hold up. I didn’t identify the victim. How do you know who—”

  “Analyze the blood on the floor. That’s the blood of the guy who got away. He’s the killer. Zack, tell them!” Why wasn’t he saying anything?

  “Ms. Swift, go with Officer Giles immediately, or we’ll let you cool off in the county jail.” Bradley’s eyes were tired. He turned to respond to a tap on his shoulder from a technician.

  “This is crazy. Zack is innocent. He was here to retrieve documents to help you in the investigation of Ann’s disappearance!” Sloane walked up to Zack as Giles unfastened his handcuffs from his belt. She ignored him, directing all her anger at Zack. “This is not okay, dammit. I thought you were a fighter. How are you going to help Ann if you go to jail for something you didn’t even do? I was ready to face my demons for you, Zack. Wake the hell up and be the man John thought you could be. The man I know you are.”

  His clenched jaw let her knew she’d hit her mark. She held her wrists out for the cuffs and followed Giles out the front door, every step away from Zack a blow to the heart.

  Her highly intellectual father called this sort of thing tough love.

  She finally understood.

  And hated it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Zack nearly bit though his cheek watching Officer Giles usher Sloane into the back of the squad car. She didn’t belong here surrounded by violence and death. Exposing her to such horror concerned him more than his bruised rib. Almost as much as her blistering censure.

  He deserved it.

 
Somehow, she’d once again cut through all the bullshit. John had been the only other one to do that. John had believed in him.

  And so, he finally realized, did Sloane.

  By losing Ann, he’d let John down. If he gave up now, he’d do the same to Sloane. How had she known everything that had happened to him since he’d shown up here at Ann’s tonight? She’d flown in here like an avenging angel, and he hadn’t even backed her up.

  He turned to Officer Janklow. “I’ll give my statement now.”

  The cop opened his mouth to say something when another man stepped into view.

  “Really? This I’d like to hear, Goldman.”

  Detective Barnaba. Perfect.

  Zack forced air through his nose though his chest protested the expansion. He flexed his fingers so they wouldn’t ball into fists. He had to rein in his emotions. No way was he going to come out of this if he was as undisciplined as he’d been eleven years ago when he’d had his first encounter with the detective.

  “You requested documents of Ann’s, and I brought them to the station earlier. Later on, I thought of something else which I came here to get, but someone was already in the condo. I surprised him, we fought, and in defense, I shot him with his own gun. I left him in the hallway to see if Ann was in the house, then I found O’Neill’s body. He’d been shot three times and was dead when I found him. I didn’t kill him, Barnaba.”

  “Okay. So where is this ‘other’ suspect? And who is he? Another lover of Ann’s?” Zack started, and Barnaba smiled. “You’re surprised I found out about Ann and O’Neill? You underestimate me, Goldman. Like you always have.” He paused, placing his hands on his hips. “A theory is sliding around in my mind. A certain love triangle between Ann, O’Neill, and…you.”

  “You son of a bitch. I could never—”

  “Careful, there.” Barnaba’s teeth flashed, a camera-perfect contrast to his tanned face. “I think Ann chose the esteemed Pastor over you, and you couldn’t handle that. Not when you’d been rejected by so many others. Maybe it made you so mad you wanted to get rid of the competition.”

  Zack strained against his cuffs. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself over Kasey, and do your fucking job. There’s a killer out there. That’s his blood on the floor. Get your dogs on the scent.” The men glared at one another until Barnaba turned to look at one of the officers. “Janklow, send a tech over here to get a sample from this lowlife, then get him out of my face.”