Stop Me

by Brenda Novak

  Maybe it was normal that human survival would make a mockery of his devotion, but he couldn’t help feeling shallow for being so weak, so susceptible.

  He was only a half hour from home when he began to slow. Don’t turn back. You don’t want to hurt her again. It was true and, with his track record, hurting her seemed inevitable. But he kept seeing those wide trusting eyes gazing up at him as he rolled her beneath him, and it wasn’t three minutes later that he stopped at an all-night liquor store to buy a box of condoms.

  * * *

  A knock at the door surprised Jasmine just as she was toweling off from her extended shower. She had the television on to distract her from the thoughts spinning around in her head, but the volume was low. Surely it hadn’t disturbed anyone….

  Standing behind the door to shield herself, she opened it the width allowed by the security chain and saw Romain there, his hands in the pockets of his coat, his collar turned up against the rain.

  She pulled the towel tighter around her and stepped into view. Romain had seen a lot more than her bare legs and shoulders and, after the way he’d acted, she didn’t mind taunting him with what he couldn’t have. “Did you forget something?”

  His eyes went briefly to the cleavage showing above the towel. “Will you let me in?”

  “No. What do you want?”

  He hesitated, glanced away, then met her gaze directly. “I want you,” he said simply.

  Jasmine started to shake her head. She couldn’t take any more ups and downs. But there was something so honest in those words, so vulnerable, that she couldn’t close the door on him, either.

  He had to be as exhausted as she was. “You can sleep in the extra bed,” she said and removed the chain. But when he came in and closed the door behind him, he reached for her and she didn’t turn him away—even when her towel landed on the carpet.

  * * *

  Beverly sat in her home office, utterly exhausted. Once she’d gotten Billy and the baby to bed at the transfer house, she’d managed to nap a little, too, but the newborn had slept only two hours before screaming for half the night. She was so colicky and miserable Beverly hadn’t known how to help her. It was dawn when she finally settled down, time for Zalinda Sputero to start her shift. Zalinda had two kids of her own, whom she brought with her. She’d been told that the children in the transfer house were foster kids waiting to be placed and seemed to believe she was doing a good deed. The fact that Peccavi paid her in cash, like he did Beverly, should’ve told her otherwise, but if Zalinda suspected she’d fallen in with a bad crowd she preferred the money to a clean conscience. She had to feed her family somehow.

  A noise at the door told Beverly that Phillip had followed her into the room. They’d just had an argument because he’d taken off again while she was at work, had left even though she’d told him over and over how dangerous it was for Dustin to be alone. Dusty could’ve tried to get up and fallen; he could’ve had a seizure; he could’ve reached the pain meds he was always begging for and overdosed. All kinds of things could’ve gone wrong. Why wouldn’t Phillip listen?

  Because he was cracking up right in front of her. She didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to hold what she had left of her family together.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

  The contrition was also nothing new. He understood the pressure she was under, felt guilty when he made it worse. And yet he wouldn’t do what she asked. She doubted he would’ve told her about the door if he’d had any way of fixing it so she wouldn’t notice. As it was, he’d stuck a piece of cardboard in the broken frame, but she’d spotted it the minute she’d walked into the kitchen.

  “Someone was in our house,” she said.

  “Nothing happened,” he responded, a point he’d made several times already. “And if nothing happened, there’s no need to overreact.”

  She spun in her chair to face him. “How do you know nothing happened?”

  “Nothing’s missing, is there?”

  Not that Beverly could tell. The money she’d received on payday had been moved but every dollar was there. Even Jasmine’s purse and other belongings were safely tucked away in her bedroom closet. “Not that I can see, but—”

  “And it’s not as if anyone bothered Dusty,” he interrupted. “You can ask him. Tonight was like any other night.”

  Ordinarily, she would’ve had to motion for Phillip to keep his voice down, but at the moment they could shout and Dustin wouldn’t hear a thing. The only real sleep he got these days was right after his morning shot, and she’d given it to him fifteen minutes ago. They wouldn’t be hearing from him for at least two hours. It was the only respite he received; it was Bev’s only respite, too.

  “I’m not sure he’d even remember it,” she said. “Depends on where he’s at with his meds.”

  “He was coherent last night.” Probably too coherent. She knew Phillip hated being alone with his brother when the painkiller wore off. He couldn’t handle the begging. Maybe that was why he’d left. Maybe Dustin had been too difficult.

  “We still have to tell Peccavi,” she said.

  “Why? There’s no need to bother him. He has enough to worry about. It was a vandal,” he said. “You know what the kids in this neighborhood are like. We’ve become Boo Radley.”

  “Who?” she said.

  “Boo Radley. From To Kill a Mockingbird.”

  “That’s a book?”

  “Yeah, it’s a book. Everyone’s read To Kill a Mockingbird. Don’t tell me you haven’t.”

  She hated it when he made her feel stupid. “Shut up about your books. I don’t have time to read, and you know it.”

  “I’m just saying it’s the neighbor kids daring each other. Ever since the police were here, everyone knows there was a body buried in our cellar. We’ve become the local house of horrors.” He laughed as if he almost enjoyed the thought, but she knew he felt exactly the opposite. And suddenly she remembered that she had read To Kill a Mockingbird. In eighth grade. She couldn’t remember a whole lot about it, but she remembered that it was a sin to kill a mockingbird because mockingbirds never hurt anyone.

  A twinge of sympathy for her middle son made Bev soften. He wasn’t sick, like Dustin. Or twisted, like Francis. But if he stayed with her, he’d have no greater chance at happiness than they did. “Come here,” she said.

  There was a puzzled expression on his face as she reached into her drawer and took out her money. She’d gotten paid a week ago and needed it for Dustin’s care. But Phillip had never had anything. He deserved this.

  Taking his hand, she put the money into it.

  “What’s this?” He thumbed through it, obviously shocked.

  “Take it and what Peccavi gave you for your own work and leave. I know it’s not a lot, but go somewhere else, get a job, make a life. And never look back.”

  The color drained from his face. As much as he craved his freedom, he was like an animal that’d been caged too long. Now that the door had been opened, he wouldn’t go anywhere. “But I can’t leave you! What about Dustin? How will the two of you get by without me?”

  She couldn’t imagine, but this was suddenly very important to her. More important than anything else. Phillip was all she had left. She had to be able to lie down at night and believe he was happy. “I’ll manage. Just don’t come back. Peccavi doesn’t like loose ends. He’ll kill you if he finds you.”

  “Mom…”

  Standing, she pulled him into her arms and gave him a fierce hug. “I shouldn’t have leaned on you so hard, Phil. You’re a good man, as good as Dusty, but with a healthy body.”

  Tears filled his eyes. “I don’t think I could live with myself if I did this.”

  “You could if you did it for me,” she said vehemently. “Let there be one Moreau who got out.”

  He blinked repeatedly. “But—”

  “It’s time, Phillip.” She smoothed the hair off his forehead like she used to when he was a little boy, something she ha
dn’t done for probably twenty years. “It’s past time.”

  He slowly straightened. “You want me to go? You really want me to do it?”

  The realization in that statement made her smile. “Merry Christmas.”

  She sat in her office as he packed and left. He came to say goodbye, but she couldn’t even look at him. It would hurt too much. She was on her own now. She’d lost her husband and her oldest son. Her youngest lay in the room next door in a drug-induced stupor. Only her middle son would escape the life the rest of them had known. But one was better than none at all. Peccavi would have no hold on Phillip. Not anymore. He could live according to that sensitive conscience of his.

  After the house fell silent and the echo of Phillip’s car had died down, Beverly finally roused herself. She needed to get some sleep if she was going to be any use to Dusty today. Maybe he’d feel well enough to play some cards. She could tell him how Phillip had found a lovely woman and run off to be married. Dustin was an old romantic—a story like that would make him smile. As the months went by, she could even write a few letters from Phillip describing the blissful life he was leading. Imagining that would make them both happy.

  Hesitating by the phone, she contemplated calling Peccavi and decided against it. He didn’t need to know about the broken door. It’d be easier to cover for Phillip if she didn’t have to talk to Peccavi for a while.

  But just as she was about to step out of the room, she realized something was different. The picture of her husband that normally sat right in the middle of her table was gone.

  Bending, she looked under the bed. Then she searched in and around the desk. Had it been knocked off? None of the others were askew.

  Where was it? She loved that picture. It’d been taken right after Milo had decided to become a volunteer with the church youth program, and it showed him with Gruber Coen, his first “project.” Beverly didn’t like Gruber much. She never had. He was odd, made her uncomfortable. But that didn’t ruin the picture because it showed her husband at his very finest. Maybe she’d been forced to do things she didn’t want to do, but Milo never had. He tried to help boys like Gruber, to make the world a better place.

  The picture was nowhere to be found.

  Something else occurred to her. Maybe it hadn’t been knocked off or misplaced. Maybe it’d been stolen. Not only had Gruber been the one to get her a job with Peccavi after Milo died, he kidnapped the kids they sold, at least those Peccavi didn’t buy from desperate women.

  Her mouth dropping open, she sagged onto the bed.

  Jasmine Stratford was onto them.

  * * *

  Gruber sat on the couch in his favorite place, with his sister positioned beside him. He liked having her close, couldn’t imagine doing anything else with her, not right away. She wasn’t even cold yet, he told himself, although he knew she had to be. A body didn’t stay warm for long. She’d start to bloat soon, and then she’d stink too badly to keep around.

  Maybe he could figure out a way to freeze all of her. Or maybe he’d chop off a finger and use it to write his mother a blood-smeared farewell.

  He chortled at the thought of a nurse opening his mother’s mail and throwing up at the sight.

  “You’re so gross!”

  He jumped at the sound of Valerie’s voice. Had she really said that? Or had he imagined it? It’d been so clear, with just the right amount of disdain….

  Fear prickled his skin as he leaned closer and put his cheek next to her mouth. No breath. She was dead. But she wasn’t silent. She’d never be silent. What would he have to do to get some peace, for God’s sake?

  Maybe it was time to get rid of her body. It’d been fun while she’d kept her mouth shut. His biggest trophy so far. He loved remembering her final moments—the disbelief that’d flickered in her eyes as he forced her to go down on her knees and take him in her mouth. But she seemed determined to get the last laugh.

  Leave it to Valerie. He could never top her. She’d make him look bad no matter what.

  The phone, ringing upstairs, made him pause just as he began to drag her off his couch. Probably Valerie’s husband again. Fortunately, she hadn’t mentioned to him that she was coming by. Steve’s calls were merely random efforts to find her: “You haven’t heard from your sister, have you? Will you call me if you do?”

  Gruber had enjoyed claiming he had no idea where she was. It was believable enough. They didn’t associate all that often. Especially since she’d married Steve. Gruber didn’t like her husband. He thought he was better than everyone else, just because he had a degree. Your brother’s a weird dude, Gruber had overheard his brother-in-law murmur to Valerie at their wedding.

  “I’m not going to pick up for your stupid husband,” he told her. But he began to fear that Steve would come over if he didn’t answer the phone, so he trudged upstairs.

  At least, he didn’t have to worry about her car. He’d already driven it back to the hospital and taken a city bus home.

  By the time he reached the phone, he’d missed the call, but caller ID indicated that it hadn’t been Steve, after all. It’d been Beverly Moreau.

  “What could she want?” he muttered, and returned the call.

  “Gruber?”

  “I’m busy,” he snapped.

  “I don’t care. You need to hear this. Jasmine Stratford was here.”

  Again? Kimberly’s sister was as determined as she said she was on TV. “What’d she want?”

  “Her sister, right?”

  He wrinkled his nose at a peculiar scent in his kitchen. Shit, he’d left the hand of the woman he’d killed last night on the kitchen counter. He’d taken it out to show Valerie and must’ve forgotten to put it back. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Her sister wasn’t one of our children?”

  She shouldn’t have been. He’d taken Kimberly for himself. Peccavi hadn’t known about her—until, after about two weeks, when he’d been hard up for money and decided to sell her to his boss. He still regretted that decision. He’d never been able to find another girl like her. Fornier’s willful brat certainly couldn’t compare. But Peccavi’s business came in handy when things went so wrong with Adele. Or rather. Francis came in handy as a scapegoat.

  “I don’t keep track,” he told Beverly. She wasn’t supposed to keep track, either. They were all safer that way. Keeping records of any kind, even mental ones, was asking for trouble. That was what Peccavi said. And Peccavi was usually right.

  “Well, she’s suspicious, anyway. I think she took that picture of you and Milo I had in my office.”

  Valerie seemed to cackle from downstairs. “See? You idiot!” she yelled. “It’s only a matter of time before you’re caught. You think you can do what you’ve done and get away with it? You think you can kill me?”

  “I’ve done whatever I want for seventeen years!” he called back.

  “What?” Beverly asked, obviously confused.

  “I’m not talking to you. Did you tell Peccavi?”

  “I left him a message to call me, but I couldn’t reach him. That’s why I’m calling you.”

  What a relief! But Valerie didn’t seem to agree. “You’ll screw it up somehow,” she yelled. “You always do.”

  Gruber pressed his fingers to his left temple. Why wouldn’t she shut up? Maybe he could silence her if he cut her up and fed her to the alligators out in the bayou. But he didn’t have time for that.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said into the phone.

  “You will?”

  “Of course. Peccavi already asked me to.”

  “And you haven’t been able to do a damn thing about it so far.” Valerie again.

  Gruber squeezed his eyes shut. She isn’t talking. She’s not even alive. Don’t listen to her.

  “Good.” Beverly sounded relieved.

  “Night,” he said.

  “Night,” she responded as if surprised he’d be so polite.

  After hanging up, he grabbed his ke
ys. He’d show Valerie. Soon Jasmine and Valerie would be watching television together.

  CHAPTER 20

  Jasmine woke midmorning. She could feel the warmth of Romain’s body. He was lying so still, she expected him to be sleeping, but when she checked, she found him awake and on his back, staring at the ceiling.

  “Don’t start,” she warned when he glanced at her.

  He rolled over and began feeling her up, making her realize that they were both growing far too comfortable with their intimacy. He was acting as if he could touch her whenever and wherever he wanted. As if he had a right. “Don’t start what?” he murmured as he nudged her hair aside and kissed her neck.

  She ignored a shiver of excitement and managed to wriggle out of his grasp. “Closing yourself off. Letting me know last night was just a cheap thrill, telling me you don’t care about me or anyone else. I get all that, okay?” She yawned lazily; she didn’t want him to guess this speech was something she’d carefully practiced before ever opening her eyes. “You’re safe.”

  A half smile curved his lips. “You made love to me three times.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything except that you’re sort of good with your hands.”

  “Sort of good?”

  She pretended to think about it. “Okay, really good.” She let her gaze travel down his length. “And you have a few other attributes I find appealing.”

  “But you’re merely using me.”

  “Of course.” She fought the urge to curl into his side and doze off for a few more minutes, to let down her guard one last time. She was tired of always pretending. Pretending she didn’t mind sharing the holidays with friends instead of relatives. Pretending what she’d felt for Harvey and the others was enough. Pretending that she wouldn’t miss the deeper feeling Romain somehow inspired. “I’m not interested in a serious relationship. This is just a temporary arrangement while I’m in town. My life is in Sacramento.”

  Some emotion showed in his eyes. She suspected it had to do with her refusal to see the difference between last night and the previous time they’d made love. He’d been extra-gentle, extra-affectionate, and he’d said some really beautiful things. But she refused to believe any of it, refused to set herself up for disappointment. The heat of passion was the heat of passion, right? And she refused to chase something she couldn’t have. She knew too well the deep dissatisfaction that stemmed from craving the ideal. For some reason, it was her lot in life to hover near the flame but never quite get warm.