“There’s nothing else, no cerebral hemorrhage, no heart problems she might not have known about?” He had to be certain.
“No. From what I can tell with this initial exam, this young woman was in perfect health, no sign of clogged arteries or excess bleeding, two of the major causes of death. I plan to send tissue samples to the mainland for more extensive tests.”
For the first time since he’d entered the morgue, James looked down at Jillian McComb. He saw her beauty, saw a promise of a future snatched away as if a rug had been pulled out from under her feet. For a moment, a sheer short span of time hardly longer than it took for him to blink, Jillian’s face shifted and changed. It took on the features of another woman, a woman from five years ago, the woman who at that very moment stared at him as if she knew he thought of her. It was true he hadn’t gotten to Emma Gray in time to save her from the violation of a monster, but at least she hadn’t ended up like Jillian McComb, lying on a cold, metal table.
James blinked the memory away and met Emma’s even gaze. He knew some people, perhaps even a few of his colleagues, would think a victim would be better off dead than to live through being violated by the monsters he knew existed. Was Emma better off? Hell, yes, he told himself. She was warm and alive. He might not be able to touch her, but he still watched over her.
And he did, every day and every night. She just didn’t know it.
And who knew, perhaps with a little more time, she might let him get close enough to touch her. He glanced down at Jilly McComb and knew he was right. Evil was here on this island, and he had no doubt all his time would now be taken up with fighting that evil.
“Yes, have more tests done as long as her brother doesn’t have a problem with it, or whatever is required by the law to determine cause of death.” James had already had the unpleasant task of calling her brother, who promised to arrive on the island as soon as possible. “What about the scratches on her neck and her face?” James asked.
“She scratched herself. I found skin tissue under her nails.”
“You’re sure it’s hers?”
“From the direction of the scratch marks, I’m pretty sure, but I’ll send the tissue to the lab on the mainland with the other specimens just to make sure,” Doc replied.
For a long moment, the room was still as a tomb. Then the fan above his head kicked in, the air duct cracked as it shifted and cold air suddenly blew down the back of his neck.
“What would scare her so much it would kill her?” James asked softly, speaking almost to himself, again concentrating on keeping his gaze on Doc as well as keeping his breathing light and shallow. He was afraid he already knew.
“I don’t know. What was she afraid of?” Doc replied. He finished his needlework, and Emma cut the suture.
And Emma didn’t say a word, although James had a very good idea what she thought could scare anyone to death since she often suffered with nightmares.
“I don’t know,” he said, too. “But I’ll find out. I know we even searched the woods that lined the cemetery. We didn’t find anything, no deer prints, not even a squirrel. You’re certain she didn’t die of anything considered natural causes?” He had to be sure.
“I’m relatively certain, yes. I’ve looked at everything I know to look at, and I can’t see any signs of infection or poison, but I’ll put a rush on things and hope to have results from the mainland in the next day or two. ”
“So what will you initially put for cause of death?”
“Undefined.”
He watched them both for a few moments more as they finished their job. They didn’t remember him saving Emma five years before; he’d made certain of that. They only knew him as Chief James Winchester. Much to his dismay, that was all the memory he could steal from them. The rest of the terror, they remembered too well. He knew in the way that Emma refused to go outside in the dark. He knew when they finished with the autopsy and cleaned up, she would curl up on a stretcher upstairs or fall asleep at her desk, but she would not venture out into the darkness even long enough to drive home.
He also knew that Doc would be just the opposite. Doc still harbored a great deal of anger over all that had transpired on this island five years ago. He was highly devoted to the people here, and he had lost his wife in the midst of that terror. He would venture out into the darkness using himself as bait, simply looking—hoping—for a chance to meet up with the one who had been responsible.
For that reason, as well as the fact that he liked and respected Doc, James watched over him, too.
A few moments later, James wished them both a good night and left. He wanted to stay. He wanted to tell them everything he knew. He wanted to tell them what he’d felt in the wind earlier in the evening. Even more, he wanted to take Emma in his arms. He wanted to hold her and kiss her until the haunted look that was so often in her eyes was gone forever. He did none of those things. All he did was play cop, and dumb cop at that. Besides, he wasn’t sure they were ready to hear what he suspected was the cause of Jillian’s death and—or what—the culprit was. Yet, even though James suspected, he had no idea where to start looking for the killer, for he had never encountered anyone capable of this. And he hoped that Doc and Emma would able to face the horror when it came into play once again. Chances were, he was going to need their help.
The undeniable dread in his gut tasted like the bitter, vinegary tang that mingled with the sharp odor in the air, and James worked to ignore it as well as the cold walls that surrounded him on his way out into the darkness.
Once outside, he breathed in the cool night air. He caught the scent of so many things in that single cleansing breath. He knew of the small rodent that searched the trash cans on the side of the building. He knew Mrs. Valentine, who worked at the bakery, must have walked by with her dog. He knew the Brandonburg boy, who ran on the high school cross-country team, had jogged by. Through all that, it was Emma’s sweet scent that lingered in his senses. He tried to dwell on that scent and let it calm him.
The evil was back. He felt it, even though it wasn’t the same as he’d felt in the past when he was called to fight evil. This time, it was like the wind, coming and going and moving. And he had to find it and kill it before it found him.
Before it found Emma a second time.
Chapter Four
Fish for Dinner
James sat in the clinic waiting room with four other waiting patients. The rather large lady sitting not too far away from him continued to hack and sneeze into a tissue. He wished she would look at him. He’d use just a little of his hypnosis ability to get her out walking every day so she could drop a few pounds. But she never looked up from the food magazine she held in her chubby hands.
At the far end of the waiting room was a child-size table with two chairs, a large plastic tub of Legos, several children’s books and various other toys. A young, pregnant mother sat in the nearest adult chair, idly paging through a magazine while a blond child, looking to be about three years old, and obviously the young woman’s daughter, quietly fit Legos together in a tall stack.
Although, he didn’t recall her name, James knew the woman. She was Harley Wellington’s wife. Harley owned one of the quick-shop gas stations on the island.
“Look what I made, Mommy,” the little girl said.
The woman looked up and smiled. “A tower,” she said. “That’s very good, Lea.”
Lea’s blond hair and light eyes reminded James of Emma, and his heart skipped a beat thinking of her. She was so close, he felt her.
“Chief Winchester,” the medical assistant called from the door leading to the exam rooms in the back of the building.
He smiled sheepishly and got up from his chair, moving to follow her into a small exam room. She left the door slightly ajar. “Now let’s have a look at what you’ve done,” she said, setting what must be his file on the counter desk opposite the exam table.
James pulled back the paper towel he held against his hand and showed her the h
ook that protruded from his left index finger. The last thing he needed was for someone else to cut it out. He could have easily taken care of this entire matter on his own and in a tenth of the time he would spend in this clinic, but since he’d actually hooked himself on purpose so he could come here to see Emma, he did his best to play the careless patient in need of medical attention.
“Oh, that looks rather painful,” the girl said. Her name pin read Olivia.
“It’s not as bad now as it was when I first did it,” he lied. “I thought it probably wasn’t a good idea that I try to pull it out.”
“You’re right. You could have made it worse. After we get that taken care of, I’ll take your weight and blood pressure and temperature,” she said as she wrote in his chart. “I just think it’s a good idea to get that cleaned out as soon as possible.”
“All right,” he said.
She asked a few more questions and informed him that by the dates in their records, he would also need a tetanus shot.
“Fine,” he replied. He wanted to ask about Emma, where she was, what she was doing given her late-night party in the basement. He knew she was still at the clinic. He was becoming so attuned to her that he was aware of her every breath. He listened closely and heard her heart beating.
Before he could ask, Olivia said, “Doctor Jenkins is very busy this morning. Would be it all right if his assistant, Ms. Gray, took care of that? And since I’m sure it will need a stitch or two, do you mind if she does that for you, too? She’s very capable.”
“I know she is, and yes, that would be fine,” he replied, hoping he didn’t sound too eager.
“I’ll gather everything she’ll need and be right back. She should be in in just a moment.”
Within ten minutes, Emma sat across a small table from him as she expertly used little cutters to remove the hook, once she’d numbed his finger with Lidocaine. He didn’t bother to tell her the Lidocaine was wasted, that he didn’t need it. But then he didn’t need the stitches, either.
She’d hardly said more than a greeting to him since she’d come into the room. She seldom met his gaze as she worked on his finger.
“Do I make you nervous?” he asked.
She paused in her work and looked straight into his eyes. James thought the world stopped spinning. For a long moment the room was completely, utterly still.
“Why would you think you make me nervous?” she asked a bit to quickly.
“You never talk to me.”
“I’m busy working.”
James didn’t believe her reply was entirely the truth. He did make her nervous. He felt her hesitancy in her hand. Just as he felt the warmth in her hands. And he wished he didn’t make her feel anything but desire and longing, so that she could share his feelings.
Her touch was soft and gentle and made him want more. He was forced to clench the fist of his other hand which was hidden on his lap. And it took nearly all of his control not to simply reach out and lose his fingers in the golden blond softness of her hair.
He knew that her hair was soft. He visited her every night as she slept. And he only allowed himself to touch her hair. Anything more would be an invasion. Anything more would make him like the monster who had hurt her five years ago.
“Did you get any sleep?” he asked quietly.
“A little,” she replied, again meeting his gaze as she answered.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you have the greenest eyes?” he asked. He knew he was making small talk with her. Hell, he wanted to touch her—all over. He wanted to kiss her lips and feel the way they would mold to his. He wanted to make love with her. But he had to start somewhere.
“You did,” she reminded him. “The last time you were here getting stitches when you cut your hand while working on your car.”
“Oh, yeah.” He pretended to remember. “I forgot about that.” It touched him that she remembered given the fact that she never picked up his chart when she came into the room.
“Am I hurting you?” she asked as she dried off his finger after washing it out.
Only because you’re so far away and I want you closer, he thought. “No.”
“I think two stitches ought to be enough,” she informed him, “but it may take three.”
“Whatever you think. You’re in charge.” He would stay here all day and let her stitch every inch of his skin if she asked him. He usually spent his day off watching over her anyway. He liked it better when she knew he was there. He liked it better when she looked at him.
“Aren’t you even going to ask me if I caught anything more than a hook in my finger?” he asked.
The smile she offered was small but beaming. “Actually, I was going to ask if it wasn’t too cold to fish today,” she said.
“It wasn’t too cold,” he replied. “It could have been much worse if the rain had hit us as predicted, but it looks like tomorrow we may not be so lucky.” Not that he wouldn’t have preferred that she be with him, keeping him warm, but he bit his tongue on that thought.
“So did you catch anything?” she gave in and asked.
“I caught a catfish this big.” He held out his other hand, giving about a two-foot span, emphasizing the size of his fish.
It was evident from her expression that she thought he was telling a fish tale.
“I really did,” he insisted. “Let me prove it to you. Come over for dinner, I’ll fry it up and we can eat it. There’s plenty for both of us.”
She drew the suture through his skin and paused to look at him before she tied it off and cut it. She had no idea how beautiful she was with her soft features, her heart-shaped face. She was going to refuse; he saw it in her eyes. It just hadn’t reached her lips yet.
“Oh, perhaps I shouldn’t ask you to come share it with me,” he put in before she could say no.
He’d piqued her curiosity, which was his intention. “Why not?” she asked.
“You’ll probably put a huge bandage on my finger, and I won’t be able to cook anything. I’ll have to order something to go from the diner, and the fish will be wasted.” He let out a loud sigh following his woe-is-me story.
She looked down once again, and worked the next stitch with expertise. “I think I’ve got an adhesive bandage that will cover that just fine and won’t take up any more of your hand than is necessary,” she informed him. “I doubt it will stop you from doing anything you want, but I would advise you to give up the fishing for a day or two.”
“Then you’ll come for dinner, and share my fish,” he said. It was no longer a question.
She paused in her work, but still looked down, refusing to meet his gaze.
With absolute gentleness, he reached up with his other hand and cupped her chin. She didn’t flinch from his touch, and he was glad. Her skin was softer than he imagined. Just as gently, he forced her to look at him.
“You’ll be safe, I promise. I am, after all, a cop.”
“I know,” she said, her words hardly more than a whisper.
“Can I pick you up at four when the clinic closes?” He gave the choice back to her. She didn’t ask how he knew the clinic closed at four. He didn’t tell her that he was always close-by when the clinic closed to watch her leave and make sure she was safe.
She nodded. “Just give me ten minutes to change clothes.”
With reluctance, he let go of her chin and let her finish his stitches. Sitting still for her was incredibly difficult. The warmth of her skin still radiated in his palm and up his arm, and the prospect of her in his home, in his SUV, at his dinner table and close enough to touch all evening sent his heart pounding. His mouth was suddenly dry as he watched her expertly maneuver the suture. Stitches were the last thing he needed. But they definitely served their purpose.
* * * *
Even though it was his day off, James went back to his office and looked once more at Jillian McComb’s personal effects. Her brother, Greg, planned to arrive today, and James wanted him to have her things. If there h
ad been any sign of foul play, all this would be evidence. Since nothing out of the ordinary had been found, he could release these things. He looked at each item before he packed it into a box, thinking it was strange how easy it was to pack up a life. A small piece of paper that had been in her pocket caught his eye.
Penciled on the paper was a list of sorts. James had read it three times the first time he’d seen it. Now he read it again.
The man of my dreams—
Sold a photograph of the beach to a magazine—
The changing leaves—
He really is the man of my dreams—
Am expanding my territory to the mainland—
The list meant nothing to James. He placed it in with the other items and gave instructions that the box should go to Greg McComb should he stop in.
* * * *
Fish sizzled in the skillet, sending the rich aroma of supper through the house. James had long ago learned the right seasonings to add flavor while cutting down on the strong smell of fish.
He couldn’t help noticing the way Emma looked around his house. She studied everything, from his framed Native American art to the way he hung cooking utensils above the stove. Anyone else would suspect she simply admired his décor. James knew her better than that. He knew she seldom went anywhere socially. Just as he also knew the only male companion she ever spent time with was Doc. And so pretending not to notice, he said nothing as she studied the layout of his house, noting where the exits were.
He tried not to stare at her, but it was still so hard to believe she was here. She had changed into jeans that hugged her hips beautifully, and a soft pink sweater that scooped at her neck just enough to bring attention to her breasts and leave him longing to feel their softness. He had hoped his casual movements would put her at ease. When they didn’t appear to do the trick, he decided to give her a job.
“I have all the makings of a great salad if you wouldn’t mind putting it together for us,” he said. He pretended to be really busy flipping the fish. “Everything’s in the fridge—lettuce, dressing, peppers, mushrooms and bacon bits. I even have this handy, really cool plastic lettuce knife.”
No Fear Page 3