ANGEL MEETS THE BADMAN

by Maggie Shayne

  She shook the memory away. "Stop!" she shouted, even as she ran barefoot through the grass to the path. "Let her go!"

  The form in the window froze, and the head turned. She couldn't see the man's eyes, but she could feel them on her. And she knew she stood in the moonlight and was probably more visible to him than he was to her—especially a second later when he dropped Vivienne's now-still body to the floor and reached out a hand to extinguish the light.

  Sara felt the icy blade of fear skewering her, and the instinct to spin around and run in the opposite direction was almost too strong to resist.

  He saw you, her mind screamed. He's coming for you now … just like before.

  She fought her terror. Vivienne might still be alive. She had to do something. Run. Run toward the killer—not away. Try to help. Grating her teeth, she did.

  Her feet pounded over the packed earth of the path, jarring her teeth, and her heart pumped harder with every step. Her breath came faster, and her lungs burned, and yet she didn't slow.

  "Hurry!" she cried. "Someone help!"

  She could no longer see that gruesome scene in the window, for the trees lining the path blocked her view. She was almost grateful for that. Dammit, why couldn't anyone hear her? She finally reached the yard, the sidewalk, the steps, shouting and shrieking all the way. It seemed to take forever to get there, and then on to the house, to climb the steps and cross the veranda. To haul open the screen. She reached for the door and yanked on the handle, only to find it locked. She pounded and yelled and yanked on the knob. She jammed her finger again and again on the bell. Tears streaming down her face, hoarse from her mad dash and her seemingly endless shouting. She kicked at the door in frustration, only to be sharply reminded that her feet were still bare. A sob was wrenched from her throat just as the door flew open.

  Jake stood there, shirtless, wearing a pair of sweat pants and nothing else. He was damp, sweaty, as if he'd been exerting himself. And he was searching her face with a deep frown on his.

  Then his hands closed on her shoulders, and drew her inside. "Sara, what the hell happened to you? Are you all right? What's—"

  "Vivienne!" she rasped. "Go to Vivienne!"

  "What?"

  "The window! I saw through the window! He's killing her!"

  She heard a pained gasp and looked up, spotted Flossie and Bertram standing at the bottom of the broad curving staircase in their nightclothes. Sara wished she could retract the words, but Flossie was already turning and hurrying back up. Bertram gripped her shoulders, held her firm. "No, love," he said.

  Jake was already crowding past them, heading up the stairs. "Keep her down here—keep them both down here," he told Bert as he passed. Then he hit the top and lunged out of sight. His footsteps pounded, and a door creaked open. She didn't hear anything more for a long moment.

  Sara was shaking all over. The memories wanted her … they wanted to claim her. Why must her eyes have to see so much violence? Why? She couldn't stand it. She couldn't—

  "Call 9-1-1." Jake's voice was firm and eerily calm, coming from the top of the stairs.

  Flossie bit her knuckle and sank toward the floor, and Sara rushed to help Bert get her to a chair and settle her into it. The woman didn't want to sit, though. Her pale face and wide, wet eyes were turned toward the staircase as Jake came slowly down. Sara reached for the phone and thumbed the buttons.

  "I'm sorry, Tante Flossie, Uncle Bert," Jake said coming closer, as Sara spoke softly to the woman on the phone, asking for police and paramedics, giving the address, barely hearing the operator's questions, because she was so focused on Jake. He sank to one knee in front of Flossie's chair, gathered her hands in his. "Vivienne…" He lowered his head. "She's gone, Flossie. I'm sorry, there was nothing I could do."

  The woman sat there in stunned silence, just looking at Jake with a plea in her eyes. Silently she begged him to tell her it wasn't true, that this was a mistake. "B-but … b-but…"

  Bertram sank into a chair himself, lowering his head to his hands. His shoulders began to shake, and his tears were noisy ones. Inelegant, unreserved and messy.

  "I want to go to her!" Flossie said suddenly, surging to her feet.

  Jake put his hands on her shoulders. "No, you don't, hon." Then he looked at Sara as she put the phone down. "Can you stay with them? I need to have a look around. Don't leave this room, Sara. I mean it."

  The killer could still be here, he told her with his eyes, not his words. She nodded, but thought about asking if there were a cupboard in the kitchen big enough for her to crawl into. They made great hiding places. At least … for a little while. Her throat went tight. Her oldest fears clawed at her senses. But she took Jake's place beside Flossie and convinced the woman to sit down again, while Jake stalked off in search of a murderer.

  And after what seemed like forever, she finally heard sirens.

  Jake knew in his gut what was coming. He knew damned well after searching Viv's room and finding nothing unusual, one slightly opened window, no evidence of any intruder, only the limp body of his pretty cousin lying on the floor. He knew what was going to happen next. While Sara sat with Flossie and Bert, he searched the house, went outside, had a look around underneath Vivienne's bedroom window. No footprints. No ground soft enough to leave any, but that wouldn't matter.

  He ought to ran. Every muscle in his body was twitching to ran. He knew it would be the only sane thing to do. And there was no reason not to, for crying out loud.

  But he couldn't. He couldn't do it, because he couldn't stand the idea of leaving Tante Flossie and Uncle Bert believing the worst of him. Not that he didn't fully expect that, anyway. But running would make it look even worse. And what about Sara? What was she going to believe when the cops got here and said what he had no doubt they would say?

  Why the hell did he care?

  The sirens came wailing closer. Jake closed his eyes and licked his lips, and already he could feel the cold, cruel rub of metal on his wrists, could see the bars and smell the sweat-and-disinfectant scent of a prison cell. Dammit. Dammit straight to hell.

  "And where is Jacob Nash right now?" one of the officers asked, with a look at the other one.

  "He's right here." Jake's voice came from the doorway, and Sara felt a flood of relief to see him there. But he looked odd. He looked angry. Defiant. As if prepared to do battle. But still, she was glad he was back. Because her brave front was wearing very thin just now, and for some reason just seeing him in the same room seemed to bolster her somehow.

  "And where have you been, Mr. Nash?" Officer Kendall asked.

  "You think you already know the answer to that, so why bother asking me?" His tone was so bitter it made Sara suck in a breath.

  She got to her feet, crossing the room to stand at Jake's side. "Jake, don't. Officer Kendall, we thought the killer might still be lurking, and Jake went to have a look around." Then she searched Jake's face. "Did you find anything?"

  He only shook his head.

  "And how do we know you weren't out there destroying evidence, Nash?" Kendall asked, looking at Jake as if he were looking at week-old garbage.

  "You're gonna have to take my word on that."

  The cop made a sound, a snort of air escaping him. "Right. The word of ex-cons is gospel. Everyone knows that."

  "How about the word 'misconduct'?" Sara snapped.

  The cop gaped at her, snapped his book closed, reached for his cuffs. "Turn around and put your hands behind your back, Nash."

  "Go to hell," Jake growled.

  "You can't arrest him!" Sara's voice broke in disbelief. "What are you? This is— I told you I saw the killer through the window!"

  "You also told us you could only see him in silhouette. That you couldn't have identified him even if you knew him."

  "I…I…"

  "Up against the wall, Nash."

  "No!" Sara said. "Look, I said I couldn't tell you who the killer was. But I can certainly tell you who he wasn't, and he wasn't Ja
ke!"

  The cop, cuffs dangling from one hand, eyed her sternly. "Would you swear to that in a courtroom?"

  Her eyes shot to Jake's. The memory of his fight with Vivienne yesterday hit her hard—the memory of that brief moment when she'd glimpsed fury in his eyes and believed him capable of violence.

  "He's killed before, you know," the second cop said.

  What if he had done it? What if … what if…? "I've seen a killer, Officer Kendall," Sara said slowly. "I've stared right into his eyes, and I'm telling you, this man is no killer." She reached out to Jake then. "Give me your hands," she said.

  "Don't bother, Sara. These two have already—"

  "Give me your damned hands," she all but growled at him.

  Looking surprised and confused, Jake complied.

  Sara closed her hands around Jake's. Turning them over, she looked at the backs of them. Smooth, tanned, unmarred. "I saw—" Then she stopped herself, glanced up at Flossie and bit her hp. Still holding Jake's hands, Sara walked to the far side of the room, taking him with her. The two cops followed. "I saw Vivienne clawing at the hands on her throat," Sara whispered. "Check her nails, and you'll see I'm right. You're going to find blood and tissue under them. She had long nails. She'd have torn some skin. But there's not a mark on Jake's hands. I'm telling you, he didn't do it."

  The cops looked at each other. One seemed relieved, but the other, Kendall, only looked angry. He glared at Jake. "You'd better hope I don't get so much as a kernel of evidence you did this, Nash, 'cause if I do, you're going right back behind bars where you belong. You hearing me?"

  Jake said nothing, just glared back at the man.

  Sara felt her demons fade into the background for just a moment as she tried to figure out why the man was being such a jerk—and then it hit her. "Wait a minute … Kendall? It just occurred to me … you're related to Bill Kendall, aren't you? The man who died in the convenience store holdup?"

  The cop's eyes narrowed. "The man Jake Nash killed, you mean? He was my grandfather. You have some kind of problem with that?"

  "You bet your badge I do, mister." Sara squared her shoulders and leaned into the man in a way she'd never done to anyone in her life. "You're biased, and you shouldn't be within a hundred miles of this case," she said, pointing at him with a forefinger.

  "Sara," Jake said. "Dammit, stay out of this."

  But she kept right on. "Don't you think for one minute that I won't be reporting this to your superiors, Kendall. I know the law. My cousin's a sheriff."

  "Yeah?" Kendall said, leaning right back at her so his nose almost touched hers. "Well, my cousin's the D.A. So good luck." Then he backed up, turned on his heel and stomped away.

  The other cop said, "Look, you all might as well get out of here for the night. The forensics team is gonna have to comb the place and … is there somewhere you can all go to get some rest? I mean … without leaving town?" he added with a quick look at Jake.

  Jake just nodded.

  "I'll, uh, need to know where to reach you," the cop said.

  "End of the path, bungalow two," Jake replied. He crossed the room, tugged a blanket off the back of the sofa and draped it around his aunt's shoulders. "It's gonna be okay, Flossie," he told her. "Come on, you just come with me, now. It'll be okay." Gently he drew her to her feet and then to the door, but she kept looking back, starting to speak, then stopping again. The poor thing was in shock.

  "She ought to have a sedative," Sara said.

  "Got any on you?" Jake asked, his tone sarcastic, as he helped Flossie down the porch steps and into the backseat of the SUV that sat in the driveway. Then he helped Bert get in beside her.

  Sara stood next to the vehicle and got in the driver's door when Jake opened it. He didn't ask her why. Maybe it was obvious that she didn't want to be alone. Not even long enough to go to the other side of the car to get in. She slid across the seat and said, "Not on me. But I have some tranquilizers in my bungalow. If you stop there, we can run in and get them."

  He stopped in the middle of backing the vehicle up, and she turned to find him staring at her. "Tranquilizers?" he asked.

  She nodded. "I … haven't needed them in a long time," she said, and if it sounded a bit defensive, well, it probably was, because that was how she felt.

  He looked at her for a long moment. "I guess there's a lot we don't know about each other yet, isn't there, Sara?"

  "More than you could even imagine."

  "How did you know … about Kendall?"

  She grated her teeth, drew a breath. "After you told me you'd done time for murder, I got on the Internet and found the old newspaper articles about the case."

  "Why?"

  She turned her head to look at him. "Jake, please get us out of here. You have no idea how close I am to falling apart right now, and I'd really rather not do that in front of your aunt and uncle."

  He looked at her for a long moment, finally nodded and said, "Okay." He put the SUV in gear and drove over the bumpy footpath out to the first bungalow. And there he stopped. "Sara?"

  She was sitting stiffly. All she kept seeing in her mind were the killer's eyes. Not the one who'd killed Vivienne. The one who'd killer her mother, her father … who'd looked right into her own terror-stricken eyes and started to come for her. The man she'd spent the rest of her life fearing, hiding from.

  "Sara?" Jake shook her this time.

  Sara blinked and turned her head.

  "We're at your bungalow. Where are those tranquilizers?"

  Swallowing hard, she said, "On the nightstand, beside the bed."

  He was frowning as he studied her face. "You stay here, okay? I'll only be a minute."

  She nodded, the motions stiff and jerky. Jake got out of the SUV, and Sara locked the doors behind him.

  She was terrified right now and glad if it showed a little bit, because maybe that meant Jake wouldn't ask her to go anywhere or do anything alone for the next day or two. Or even the next hour or two. He didn't even suggest she might want to get out here, go to her own bed. She wouldn't have gone if he had.

  She sat silent on the seat, fought the memories, but knew it was a battle she would never win. Glancing down at her clenched, trembling hands, she tried to remember how many tranquilizers remained in the little bottle she'd brought along in case of emergency. She hoped there would be enough for her and Flossie both. She wasn't sure she was going to make it through this night without something.

  He'd seen her. The killer had looked right into her eyes. He'd seen her. Just like before.

  Sara shivered and clenched her fists more tightly.

  Jake was a bit rattled. Not just by being the only suspect in his own cousin's murder, but by Sara Brand. First defending him like a pit bull to the meanest cop he'd ever met. Then doing a total turnaround. In the SUV she'd gone as rigid and fragile as pottery. He sensed a storm going on inside her, one she was fighting. And he sensed there was a whole lot more to the woman than he'd even begun to suspect.

  "I've seen a killer," she'd told Kendall. "I've looked right into his eyes." What the hell did she mean by that? And was that why she'd been on tranquilizers?

  She'd locked those doors so fast his feet had barely touched the ground when he heard the clicks.

  Hell. Okay, so there was more to Sara Brand than met the eye. A lot more. And maybe he was as guilty of judging her by her surface appearance as he'd believed she'd been of judging him by the same.

  He went into the bungalow and stopped just inside the door, because he'd heard, distinctly, the back door creak closed. Then what sounded like footsteps running softly through the grass out back. He flicked on a light and ran through the bungalow, looked out back. But saw nothing. Sighing, nervous, not liking this a bit, he went to the bedroom, snatched the pill bottle off the nightstand and turned to leave.

  But as he moved back through the kitchen again, he noticed something else that gave him pause.

  The oil lamp that sat in the window … its globe was off.
And beside it was a book of matches, one match ripped out and lying atop the rest.

  His throat went dry at what that implied. He tried to swallow, then hurried back out to the waiting vehicle.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  "They're finally asleep," Jake said. He dragged his gaze away from the bed in bungalow two, where Flossie and Bertram lay beneath the covers, resting thanks to some help from Sara's bottle of little white pills.

  Sara said nothing. She was still sitting on the other side of the small bedroom, curled up in a wicker chair with her knees drawn to her chest and her arms wrapped around her knees. Her lips were pale, and her eyes were wide, and every once in a while a little tremor would ripple through her. Or she would start at some sound, like the wind blowing a twig over the front porch.

  She was scared to death. Of what she'd seen tonight? Of the killer? Or of him?

  And why the hell was he worrying about that, anyway? He certainly had better things to think about—more pressing things, at least. The main one being that by this time tomorrow he was going to be behind bars as the cops stamped "solved" on his cousin's murder case. Because it was only a matter of hours before the cops talked to someone about that huge asinine scene Jake had made out in front of the jazz club, when he'd grabbed Vivienne and Vivienne had slapped him. And that was gonna be damn near all the evidence they would need to lock him up for life. Or worse.

  He had to get the hell out of here. Now. Tonight. Right, he thought, and leave everyone certain of his guilt?

  But what choice did he have? There was no way he was going to get out of this mess. No way in hell. Kendall … dammit, Kendall would fry him. And as for any samples that might be found under Viv's nails—well, when a cop hated you the way Kendall hated him, evidence could easily disappear. And he couldn't even blame the bastard. The old man whose blood stained Jake's hands had been Marty Kendall's grandfather, after all.