by Joanna Wayne
Bad analogy, she decided, forcing herself to take a deep steadying breath of the stale air. Maybe the stalker wasn’t coming. Or maybe he’d beaten her here, parked his car behind dense clusters of trees and undergrowth. Maybe he was waiting for her to find him. More moves in his bizarre game of terror.
“Is anybody here?” Her voice crawled the walls and the rafters, delving into depths of blackness and echoing back like a high-pitched wail.
Even that was welcome relief from the maddening silence. The squeak of the door was not. She jerked around.
“Butch?”
“Who were you expecting?”
“The stalker.” Disappointment rushed her senses and sharpened her tone. “You promised you’d stay hidden until the stalker showed up.”
“But there’s no one here but you and me, Jodie.”
“He’s coming. He has to be. We had this all worked out, Butch.”
“You are so eager to meet the stalker.” He stepped closer and snaked an arm around her shoulders, tangling his fingers in her hair. “Are you sure you’re ready for him, Jodie? Alone and helpless, the way you are now. Out here where no one can hear your screams?”
His tone grew dark, and icy fingers of fear crawled her skin. But he was frightening her on purpose, trying to dissuade her from doing this again.
She pulled away from him. “I’m not alone, Butch. You’re here. But we may as well leave now. Even if the stalker was going to show, he won’t with you out in the open. I told you he made me promise not to bring anyone.”
“And did you do as he asked, or is Ray with you, hidden in the woods, waiting to rush to your rescue if I don’t do the job?”
“I’m alone.”
“Perhaps the man who wants you for himself is here with us right now, thinking of how it would feel to crush you against him.”
“Cut out the fright tactics, Butch. They won’t work with me. I’ve lived with fear too intimately and far too long to break now.”
He reached a hand toward her, then stopped and whirled toward the door as it squeaked open again. This time it was Ray who marched in.
“What in the devil is going on here?”
“Your girlfriend threw a party,” Butch answered. “Only the guest of honor didn’t show.” His voice returned to normal, the Gothic tone discarded like old chewing gum. Ray unhooked his beeper and threw it in her direction. She caught it one-handed.
“Test it, Jodie. It works fine. So, why didn’t it go off before you drove out here? You were not supposed to go through with this unless I was here.”
“Just settle down, Ray. I can explain everything.”
“Good. I just covered thirty miles in about twenty minutes, panicking every second about what I’d find when I got here. This better be one hell of an explanation.”
She didn’t have one he’d buy, and she was too frustrated to lie. “Did you ever stop to think that I might know what I’m doing, that I didn’t need you to come tearing out here like a macho knight on a quest to save the ignorant maiden?” Without looking back, she marched out of the house and dropped behind the wheel of her car, slamming the door behind her. She left both men standing in a cloud of dust as she spun out
A few minutes ago she’d been alone, drowning in fear. But at least then there had been a chance that the nightmare she’d been living with for over three months might come to an end. Now there was nothing except the fierce guilt that gripped her heart like ribbons of steel.
Max was dead because of her. Gloria was dead because of her, although no one but Jodie believed the stalker had been in her shop that night. And Parker Kostner was in a hospital, lucky to be alive. Like Russian roulette, the next victim would fall to the luck of the twirl.
Grams, Ray, herself. Even Blair or Blake, totally innocent, totally dependent on her. How had she let this evil creep into their world? She gunned the engine, frustration churning inside her like black coffee left to boil on an open burner.
The stalker had outsmarted them again.
THE PERSONAL AD hot line stayed silent the rest of Thanksgiving Day, giving Jodie time to cool down and all of them time to enjoy a dinner laden with calories and taste and blessed with laughter.
As always, life had gone on. The boys had still entertained with toddler antics, Grams had still told fascinating stories, Selda had still made them laugh. And Ray had glared at her over the top of the turkey, too upset with her to give an inch.
Now dusk was starting to fall on another day. Friday evening and no further attempts at contact by the stalker. Impatience twisted inside Jodie. A dozen times or more, she had checked the phone to make sure it still had a dial tone. But the problems were not with the instrument. They lay with stalker.
Either he had smelled a trap from the start or he had been frightened off by Butch and Ray. But Jodie hadn’t given up. The phone was with her now, tucked into the pocket of her green windbreaker. It rested silently while she pushed the boys in baby swings Ray had attached to a low-hanging branch of the centuries-old oak tree.
Grams was inside dozing; Ray was on the porch, spread across the wicker settee, the work he’d brought home from the office moving from one pile to another and back again as he scrutinized page after page. So much for taking the day after Thanksgiving as a holiday.
“That must be pretty interesting fare,” she called out. “What are you working on?”
“I’m reviewing cases involving serial killers.”
The familiar chill played hopscotch on her nerve endings. “I’m sorry I asked.”
“Me, too. And sorrier that I don’t have some earth-shattering discoveries to share with you.”
“The boys are tired of swinging. I think I’ll load them in the wagon and walk down to the river. Do you want to come?”
“I’d love to, but I want to finish this.”
“All work and no play…”
“He who finishes his work by sunlight, reaps rewards when the moon shines.”
“Who said that?”
“A wise and handsome sage who has plans for playing with you in the moonlight.”
A pleasurable warmth spread to her cheeks. Yesterday he had remained a stoic chunk of ice. Finally, he was thawing. She’d assured him she would not meet the stalker again without keeping him fully informed.
“Grams is right,” she said, pushing a wind-tossed lock of hair from her eyes. “You do have a twisted lawyer’s mind.”
“The better to seduce you with, my dear.”
She picked up the rubber ball Blair had dropped a minute ago and threw it at him. It missed by a foot.
“And we can only hope you’re never elected president. The first pitch of the season might wind up in the stands.”
The boys squealed with delight when she piled them into the old wooden wagon. Minutes later, she was moving at a steady clip, down the path that led to the boathouse and the river. Halfway there, she stopped, intrigued by a rendition of an old Elvis Presley song punctuated by rhythmic swishing.
She peeked over a holly hedge. The serenade was courtesy of Grady and an oversize radio. The swishing noise came from a machete. Muscles bulged as a shirtless Grady swung the sharp blade expertly, rhythmically. The machete sliced through a cluster of overgrown berry bushes, leaving the butchered branches to fall where they might.
Blake protested the fact that the wagon was no longer moving with a couple of squeals. Grady looked up and caught her staring. Perspiration dripped from his forehead to be absorbed by the dirty headband that rode the top of his eyebrows.
“Hello, boss lady,” he said.
“Jodie will do fine.”
“Sorry. Guess my manners aren’t good enough for Jodie Gahagen. But you know me, just the son of the white trash gardener trying to get by.”
“Ben has never been trash.”
“No? You’d never know that by his living arrangements in that old boathouse.” He put one hand over his eyes to shade them from the sun. The other still clutched the machete. “Anyway
I’m glad you happened along. I appreciate the employment, but this will be my last day to work for you. Next week I’ll be heading back to New York.”
“I thought Ben said you were living here now.”
“I thought I might. It’s not working out the way I’d hoped. Natchitoches is just a little too quiet for me. Besides, by next week I’ll have taken care of the business I came for.”
His gaze raked over her, lingering too long on certain areas. Feelings of uneasiness prickled her skin. “What business might that be?”
“Personal. A woman I wanted to see one last time, to find out if we could make a go of it.”
“Could you?”
“No. She’s interested in someone else. A bad choice on her part.”
Blair fussed and pulled at her skirt. This time she ignored his pleas for attention. “Do you have a job in New York?”
“No, but I’ll find something. Of course, I won’t be able to live in the Village like you did. I’ll move back to the real low-rent district, share my place with a few rats and roaches.”
“How do you know where I lived?”
“My dad treated me to dinner one night. Afterward we walked down to the Village and looked up your place. I suggested we stop in and surprise you. My dad refused. He doesn’t go where he’s not invited.”
“Jodie!” The piercing yell of her name stopped the conversation cold. Selda was jogging down the path, her short legs going faster than Jodie had ever seen her move.
“Come quick, Jodie. You have to see this.” Her breathing was hard and fast.
“Has something happened to Grams? To Ray?”
“No. Just come, Jodie. To my house, upstairs to Greg’s room. I think I’ve found your stalker.”
They stopped just long enough to pick up Ray who had disappeared inside for another stack of files. This time Jodie was thankful he was nearby. Selda was not making a lot of sense.
“I don’t usually go into rooms I’ve rented out, not without good reason,” Selda explained, leading Jodie and Ray, each holding a child, up the stairs to the second level of her rambling house.
“Why did you go into the room this time?” Ray asked.
“I didn’t. I mean the door was ajar. I knocked, and it opened on its own.”
“And you found evidence that Greg is the stalker?” The doubt in Ray’s voice did nothing to dissuade Selda.
“Just wait. I’m not saying anything. You have to see it for yourself.”
Ray reached the door first, but Jodie squeezed past him, stepping inside only to stop cold, her feet nailed to the spot. Greg’s bed was neatly made, the white chenille bedspread papered with photographs. Color and black-and-white. All sizes. At least two dozen different poses.
All of Jodie.
“How did he get these?”
“No sweat there.” Ray waved his hand toward an assortment of telescopic lenses that lined the top of a walnut armoire. “The question is, why?”
Jodie picked up the pictures, one by one, vertigo gnawing away at her equilibrium. There were shots of her alone. Reading in the back porch rocker, shelling pecans on the back steps, her skirt pulled up to cradle the lapful of nuts. And an enlargement, a color shot of her drying her hair in the sun, her head down, the wet strands shimmering like liquid fire.
The next picture she touched was of her holding Blake and Blair. She shuddered, her breath balled up inside her, struggling for release. He’d said she and the boys would make a great family scene. He’d proved it, over and over.
Picture-perfect images of her playing with the boys on the back porch, pulling them in the wagon, picnicking on a blanket by the river.
She hugged Blair to her, felt his tiny heart beating against her chest. She buried her lips in his wispy red curls, then reached a hand to Blake. Her fingers traced the lines of his baby smooth face, his feathery eyelashes, his perfect nose, his sweet pink lips.
More precious than life, their innocence captured in the camera eye of a killer. Fury took over now, replacing the fear she had lived with for months. This man had taken so much from her, leaving cold, hard emotions in their place.
“Call Butch Deaton, Selda.”
Ray slipped an arm around her, but it didn’t soothe her. Nothing would ever soothe her until she knew Greg Johnson would never again walk the streets to prey on innocent people.
JODIE DROPPED to the porch swing. The boys were fast asleep and Grams had retired early as well. It had been an eventful day. But tonight, for the first time in months, she would sleep knowing the living nightmare was finally over. Greg had returned to his apartment at Selda’s to find Butch and two other officers waiting for him. According to Butch he was still protesting his innocence loud and long, demanding to see a lawyer. Nonetheless he was behind bars for now, the snapshots confiscated as evidence in the case against him.
And Butch had assured her no judge in the parish would grant parole. Not unless God himself intervened with a miracle. Jodie wasn’t worried. She was sure God had not taken league with the devil.
She sipped from the mug of hot chocolate at her fingertips, savoring the warmth as it slid down her throat. All the pieces were falling into place. All but one, and he was standing at the edge of the porch, staring into the darkness.
“I have to go back to New Orleans, Jodie.”
The words shattered her newfound peace.
“When?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll visit my dad in the hospital and then take a flight from the airport in Shreveport.”
“You’ll miss the festival.”
“I know. At least you and the boys will be able to enjoy it without worry.”
She walked over and stood beside him. “We’d enjoy it a lot more if you were there with us.”
The muscles in his arms tightened, and his hands gripped the porch railing. “Maybe, for a while.”
“No games, Ray. Not after all that’s gone between us. Just say what you’re thinking.” Now she was the one straining for control.
He turned, finally meeting her gaze. “I’m not the man for you, Jodie.”
“You’re the man I want, the man I love.” Moisture burned at the back of her eyes. She fought to keep it at bay.
“No. I’m the man you think you want. But I’d never be able to live up to your level of perfection. The more you and the boys wanted from me, the less I’d be able to give. I’d disappoint you time and time again, until resentment would be the only emotion we’d feel for each other.”
He turned away again. She moved in front of him, standing on tiptoe, forcing him to look her in the eye. “Do you love me, Ray?”
“Love has nothing to do with this.”
“Do you love me? Because if you can look me in the eye and tell me you don’t, then I won’t say another word. But if you do, then give us a chance.”
“A chance to fail?”
“Maybe. Or maybe for more happiness than you ever dreamed possible.”
He shook his head. “I can’t, Jodie. I can’t do this to you or to my sons. I’ll send you money, all the money you need. You can stay here in Natchitoches or go back to New York, but you won’t have to work unless you want to. You can be a full-time mother to our sons. I’ll visit them when I can.”
“No.”
“It’s the best choice for everybody.” His voice was heavy with the pain of finality.
Pain gripped her heart, but she held her head high. “I don’t want your money, Ray. I don’t want visits once a year to dredge up old heartaches. My sons don’t need a father who rejects them.” She called on every ounce of strength she possessed and forced her ultimatum through clenched teeth. “Either you commit to being a full-time husband and father or you are out of our lives forever.”
“Go ahead, push me, Jodie. It’s when I buckle. It’s time you saw me at my worst. That way you can walk away without looking back.”
“I’m not the one walking away, Ray. You will be. All or nothing. It’s your call.”
He turned awa
y from her and slammed a fist into the porch post. The tears she’d tried so hard to fight broke loose as the only man she’d ever loved took the steps two at a time and disappeared through the back gate.
HE SAT AT an old table in the basement of the house he had grown up in. The house was falling to pieces around him, the way his mother had in the year before her death. The men had quit coming then, quit knocking on her door at all hours to disappear into her bedroom. The laughter and moans of pleasure had stopped. So had the sickening odors of defilement.
It didn’t matter anymore. It was time for him to leave Natchitoches and the memories far behind. Maybe if he was out of this house, the urges would die like his mother had or just go away one day and never return the way his wife had deserted him.
But the urges hadn’t died yet. Tonight they were stronger than ever. Tonight the basement was filled with Jodie Ga-hagen. He’d taken out some of the mementos he’d stolen from her apartment in New York and placed them on the table.
A pair of silky panties, a tube of lipstick and one almost empty bottle of body lotion. Items so insignificant to her she’d never missed them. Items that fed him, driving him to do what he had to do.
Painstakingly, he twisted the cap from a glass vial of the liquid that would end Jodie’s life. Four vials, saved up from legitimate prescriptions that were meant to save his life.
Jodie could have saved herself. Instead, she’d flaunted her body in front of Ray Kostner, intoxicating him with her sensual ways, making love to him in the law office, even inside her grandmother’s house.
Nice women didn’t do that.
His hand shook the way it did when the images of the past merged with those of the present. His mother. His wife. The young blonde in Bossier City, the petite brunette in Ruston. All women who flaunted their bodies in front of unworthy men.
Now Jodie had to die. Saturday night. It would be the high point of the Festival of Lights.
And just like the others, no one would know she had been murdered. He was too smart for all of them.
Chapter Fifteen
Ray was up at sunrise for the drive to Shreveport. The night had been long and sleepless, leaving plenty of time to think of Jodie’s ultimatum. To know he would never again wake up to the feel of Jodie cuddled against him. Her hair feathering his shoulders, her face seductive even in sleep, her body warm, waiting to be wakened by the touch of his lips on hers.