The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5

by Nora Roberts

  “If you change your mind, I’d like first bid.”

  “Maybe. Obviously it suits you.”

  She touched a hand to his cheek. “Can I get some water? I feel like I climbed Mount Constitution without a bottle.”

  “Sure.”

  She lifted her eyebrows when he rolled off the table and strode, naked, out of the room. She was pretty comfortable with her own body, but she couldn’t see herself walking around her house naked.

  Still, he looked damn good doing it.

  She sat up, took a breath, started to stretch with a huge smile on her face. Then stopped in shock. They’d just had crazed sex on the dining room table, in front of open, uncurtained windows. She could see the dogs romping, his drive, her own car.

  Anyone could’ve driven up, hiked up from the beach, out of the woods.

  When he walked back in with a bottle of water, already uncapped and half empty, she pointed. “Windows.”

  “Yeah. Table, windows, ceiling, floor. Here.” He passed her the bottle. “I started it, you can finish it off.”

  “But windows. Daylight, open.”

  “It’s a little late to get shy now.”

  “I didn’t realize.” She took a long drink, then another. “It’s probably for the best. But next time—if you’re interested in next times.”

  “I’m not done with you yet.”

  “That’s a very Simon way to put it.” She took another, slower drink. “Next time I think we should try for a little more privacy.”

  “You were in a hurry.”

  “I have no argument.”

  He smiled at her again. “You make a hell of a centerpiece. All I need is a picture of you, sitting there in the middle of the table, your hair catching just the right amount of sun, all messy around your face, and those long legs drawn up right below those very pretty breasts. I could get a freaking fortune for that table.”

  “No dice.”

  “I’ll give you thirty percent.”

  She laughed, but wasn’t entirely sure he was joking. “And still no. I wish I didn’t have to, but I need to get dressed and go.”

  He took her hand, turned her wrist to check the time. “We’ve still got an hour.”

  “During which I have to get home, clean up. Dogs are . . . very sensitive to scent.”

  “Got it. They’ll smell the sex.”

  “In indelicate terms, yes. So I need a shower. I also need a shirt. You ripped mine.”

  “You were—”

  “In a hurry.” She laughed and, despite the uncurtained windows, was tempted to leap up and do a happy dance on the table. “But I still need to borrow a shirt.”

  “Okay.”

  When he walked out naked again, she shook her head. After sliding off the table, she pulled on her pants, her bra.

  Just as casually, he walked in and tossed her the shirt she’d recently yanked off him.

  “Thanks.”

  He tugged his work pants on while she pulled on her boots. Though she felt a little dreamy, she matched his easy tone when she stepped over, touched his face again.

  “Next time, maybe we’ll have dinner first.” She kissed him lightly. “Thanks for the tree, and the use of the table.”

  She walked out, called up her dogs and gave Jaws a body-scrub good-bye. It pleased her to see Simon standing out on the deck, shirtless, his hands in the pockets of his yet to be buttoned jeans, watching her as she drove away.

  TWELVE

  Francis X. Eckle completed the last of his daily One Hundred. A hundred push-ups, a hundred crunches, a hundred squats. He performed these, as always, in the privacy of his motel room.

  He showered, using his own unscented shower gel rather than the stingy sliver of motel soap. He shaved, using a compact electric razor that he cleaned meticulously every morning. He brushed his teeth with one of the travel brushes in his kit, which he then marked with an X for future disposal.

  He never left anything personal in the motel waste can.

  He dressed in baggy sweatshorts and an oversized white T-shirt, nondescript running shoes. Under the T-shirt he wore a security belt holding cash and his current ID. Just in case.

  He studied himself in the mirror.

  The clothes and the bulk of the belt disguised the body he’d sculpted to mean and muscular perfection, and gave the illusion of an ordinary man, a bit thick in the middle, about his ordinary morning. He studied his face—brown eyes, long, bladed nose, thin, firm mouth, smooth cheeks—until he was satisfied with its pleasant, even forgettable expression.

  He kept his brown hair close-cropped. He wanted to shave it for ease and cleanliness, but though a shaved head had become fairly common, his mentor insisted it drew more attention than ordinary brown hair.

  This morning, as every morning over the past weeks, he considered ignoring that directive and doing what suited him.

  This morning, as every morning, he resisted. But it was becoming harder as he felt his own power grow, as he embraced his new self, to follow the lesson plan.

  “For now,” he murmured. “But not for much longer.”

  Over his head, he fit a dark blue cap with no logo.

  There was nothing about him to draw the eye, to earn a glance by a casual observer.

  He never stayed in the same hotel or motel more than three nights—two was better. He sought out one with a gym at least every other stop, but otherwise looked for the lower-end type of establishment where service—and the attendant attention—was all but nonexistent.

  He’d lived frugally all of his life, dutifully pinching pennies. Before he’d begun this journey he’d gradually sold everything he owned of value.

  He could afford a great many cheap motel rooms before the journey’s end.

  He slipped his key card into his pocket and took one of the bottles of water from the case he’d brought in himself. Before leaving the room, he switched on the camera hidden in his travel alarm by his bedside, then plugged in the earbuds for his iPod.

  The first would assure him housekeeping didn’t poke through his things; the second would discourage conversation.

  He needed the gym, needed the weights and machines, and the mental and physical release they provided. Since he’d converted, the days without them left him tense and angry and nervous, clouded his mind. He’d have preferred to work out in solitude, but traveling required adjustments.

  So with his pleasant expression in place he walked outside and across to the tiny lobby and the tiny health club.

  A man walked with obvious reluctance on one of the two treadmills, and a middle-aged woman rode a recumbent bike while reading a novel with a bright cover. He timed his gym visit carefully—don’t be the first or the only.

  He chose the other treadmill, selected a program, then switched off the iPod to watch the news on the TV bracketed in the corner.

  There would be a story, he thought.

  But as the newscasters reported on world events, he started his run and let his mind focus on the latest correspondence from his mentor. He’d memorized every line before destroying it, as he had all the others.

  Dear friend, I hope you’re well. I’m pleased with your progress to date, but want to advise you not to push yourself too fast, too soon. Remember to enjoy your travels and your accomplishments, and know you continue to have my support and my gratitude as you prepare to correct my foolish and disappointing mistake.

  School your body, your mind, your spirit. Maintain your discipline. You are the power, you are the control. Use both wisely and you will amass more fame, more fear, more success than any who have come before you.

  I look forward to hearing from you, and know that I am with you, in every step of your journey.

  Your Guide

  Fate had taken him to that prison, Eckle thought, where George Allen Perry had unlocked the cell he’d been trapped in all of his life. He’d toddled like a child with those first steps of freedom, then had walked, then had run. Now, now he craved the heady taste of
that freedom like breath. Craved it until he’d begun to twitch at the rules, the regulations, the absolutes Perry asked of him.

  He was no longer the soft, awkward boy desperate for approval and hounded by bullies. No longer the child passed from hand to hand because of a selfish whore of a mother.

  No longer the pimply, overweight teen ignored or laughed at by girls.

  All of his life he’d lived inside that cage of pretense. Stay quiet, tolerate, obey the rules, study and take whatever was left when the stronger, the more attractive, the more aggressive took theirs.

  How many times had he seethed in silence when passed over for a promotion, a prize, a girl? How many times had he, alone, in the dark, plotted and imagined revenge against coworkers, students, neighbors, even strangers on the street?

  He’d begun these travels, as Perry had explained to him, before they’d met—but he’d carried the cage with him. He’d worked to discipline his body, pushing through pain and frustration and deprivation. He’d sought and found a rigid internal control, and still had failed in so many ways. Because he’d still been locked in that cage. Unable to perform with women when, at last, one deigned to sleep with him. Forced to humiliate himself with whores—like his mother.

  No longer. Perry’s creed preached that the act of sexual intercourse diminished a man’s power, gave that power to the woman—who would always, always use it against him. Release could be gained in other, more potent ways. Ways only a relative few dared practice. With that release power and pleasure rose.

  Now that the cage was open, he’d discovered in himself both an aptitude and an appetite for that release, and the power that charged through it.

  But with the power came responsibility—and that, he could admit, he found difficult to navigate. The more he gained, the more he wanted. Perry was right, of course. He needed to maintain his discipline, to enjoy the journey and not rush it.

  And yet . . .

  As he pushed up the speed and resistance on the treadmill, Francis promised himself and his absent mentor he would refrain from seeking his next partner for at least two weeks.

  Instead he would travel a bit more—meandering. He would allow his power to recharge, feed his mind with books.

  He wouldn’t head north, not yet.

  And while he recharged and fed, he’d monitor Perry’s disappointing mistake through her blog, her website. When it was time, he would correct that mistake—the only payment Perry asked of him, the price for tearing down the cage.

  He looked forward, like a child to a parent’s applause, to Perry’s approval when he took, strangled and buried Fiona Bristow.

  Bringing her image into his mind pushed him through the next mile while sweat ran down his face, his body. His reward came when the news-caster reported on the discovery of a young woman’s body in the Klamath National Forest.

  For the first time that morning, Eckle smiled.

  ON SUNDAY, Mai and her dogs came for a visit. Saturday night’s rain left the air cool and fresh as sorbet and teased out a haze of green on the young dogwoods flanking the bridge. In the field the grasses sparkled with wet while the creek bubbled busily and the dogs romped like kids in a playground.

  On the scale of lazy Sunday mornings, Fiona rated this one a solid ten. With Mai, she relaxed on the porch with the mochaccinos and cranberry muffins the vet had bought in the village.

  “It’s like a reward.”

  “Hmm?” Slumped down, eyes half open behind the amber shades of her sunglasses, Mai broke off another piece of her muffin.

  “Mornings like this, they’re like a reward for the rest of the week. All the get-up, get-going, get-it-done mornings. This is the carrot on the stick, the brass ring, the prize at the bottom of the cereal box.”

  “In my next life I’d like to come back as a dog because, really, in the great scheme? Every morning is the prize at the bottom of the cereal box for a dog.”

  “They don’t get mochaccinos on the porch.”

  “True, but toilet water would taste just as wonderful.”

  Fiona studied her coffee, considered. “What kind of dog?”

  “I think a Great Pyrenees, for the size, the majesty. I think I deserve it after being short in this life.”

  “It’s a nice choice.”

  “Well, I’ve given it some thought.” Mai yawned, stretched. “Sheriff Tyson called me this morning to let me know they upgraded Walter’s condition to stable. He’s going to be in the hospital for another few days, but if he stays level, they’ll let him go home. The daughter and her family are making arrangements for a visiting nurse.”

  “That’s good news. Do you want me to pass it along?”

  “I let Chuck know, so I figure he’ll take care of that. Since I was heading over, I thought I’d just tell you in person. By the way, I really like your trees.”

  “Aren’t they great?” Just looking at them made Fiona smile. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Now I’m thinking maybe I should plant something splashy at the far end of the drive. Like an entryway. It’d be a kind of landmark for new clients, too. Turn at the drive with the . . . whatever I decide on.”

  Mai tipped down her glasses to peer at Fiona over the tops. “Moving out of the low-key stage? And I worried you’d put a gate up.”

  Sipping her coffee, Fiona watched the dogs troop around the yard in what she thought of as The Peeing Contest. “Because of Vickie Scala?” she said, referring to the latest victim. “A gate wouldn’t do me much good if . . . and it’s a big if.”

  But like Mai and her next life as a dog, she’d given it some thought.

  “It makes me sick to think about those girls, and their families. And there’s nothing I can do, Mai. Nothing at all.”

  Mai reached over, squeezed Fiona’s hand. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “No, it’s okay. It’s on my mind. How could it not be? And I’m scared. You’re probably the only one I can say that to, just flat-out.” Fiona held on to Mai’s hand a moment, steadied by the contact. “I’m scared because if. I’m scared because there’s nothing I can do. I’m scared because it took them years to catch Perry, and I don’t know how I’ll cope if the pattern repeats. If I said that to Syl or my mother, they’d turn themselves inside out with worry.”

  “Okay.” Tone brisk, Mai shifted to face Fiona. “I think you’d be stupid not to be scared, and why the hell would you be stupid? I think if it wasn’t on your mind, you’d be hiding in denial, and what good would that do? And I think if you didn’t feel sick and sorry about those girls, you’d be heartless, and how could you be?”

  “And there,” Fiona said on a wave of relief, “is why I could say it to you.”

  “Now, on the other end of the scale, on the solid reasons not to freak—scared, yes, freaked, no—you have the dogs, and you have people who’re going to be checking on you with such annoying regularity you’ll be tempted to tell them to butt the fuck out. Oh, and don’t bother to tell me to butt the fuck out,” she added. “I’ll just kick your ass. Short, yes, but mighty.”

  “Yes, you are. I also know we’re sitting here drinking mochaccinos and watching our dogs play because you’re checking on me. And I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome. I want you to plant your splashy whatever at the end of your drive, Fee, if it makes you happy. But I want you to be careful, too.”

  “Part of me wonders if I’ve ever really stopped being careful since the day Perry grabbed me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I stopped running, and God, Mai, I used to love it. Now I use a treadmill, and it’s not the same rush. But I settle because I feel safer. I haven’t gone anywhere alone in years.”

  “That’s not . . .” Mai paused. “Really?”

  “Really. You know, it didn’t occur to me until this started that I never go anywhere without at least one of the dogs—and part of the reason is what happened to me. I wait for movies to come out on DVD or cable instead of going to the mov
ies because I don’t want to leave one of the dogs in the car that long—and more, I only take all three of them, leaving the house unguarded, when it’s for training or when I’m taking them into your office.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “No, and I’m okay with it—I just didn’t realize the underlying reason for it. Or didn’t admit it. I leave my door open a lot. I rarely lock it—until recently—because the dogs give me the sense of security I need. I haven’t actively thought about all that happened, not really, in the last year or two, but I’ve protected myself, or at least my sense of security, all this time.”

  “Proving you have a smart unconscious.”

  “I like to think so. My conscious is also doing some target practice. I haven’t done any shooting in a couple years either. So . . .” She shook it all off. “I’m doing whatever I can, which includes not obsessing about it. Let’s talk about the spa.”

  Enough, Mai decided. She hadn’t come to drag Fiona into the stress but to help ease it. “We could, and we should, but first I could tell you about my date for drinks this evening.”

  “You have a date?” This time Fiona lowered her sunglasses. “With who?”

  “With Robert. He’s a psychologist, with his own practice in Seattle. Forty-one, divorced, with a nine-year-old daughter. He shares custody. He has a three-year-old Portuguese water dog named Cisco. He likes jazz, skiing and travel.”

  “You used HeartLine-dot-com.”

  “I did, and I’m taking the ferry over and meeting him for drinks.”

  “You don’t like jazz, or skiing.”

  “No, but I like dogs, I like to travel when I can, and I like kids, so it balances out.” Stretching out her legs, Mai studied the toes of her shoes. “I like ski lodges, with roaring fires and Irish coffee, so that’s half a point. Besides, I have a date, which means I’m going to put on a nice outfit, fuss with my makeup and go have a conversation with someone I haven’t met. And if there’s no zing, I get on the ferry, come home and try again.”

  “I’d be nervous. Are you nervous?”

  “A little, but it’s a good nervous. I want a relationship, Fee, I really do. It’s not just the dry spell, because, hello, Stanley. I want someone I care enough about to want to spend time with, be with, fall in love with. I want a family.”