Tasting Fear

by Shannon McKenna

  Nancy had disappeared. The moment might be lost. The slut singer pulled again, babbling with a smile he wanted to knock right off her doll-like face. She tugged harder. His patience came to an abrupt end. He yanked his arm away, so roughly she teetered, stumbling on her tottering spike heels. “What is wrong with you?” she squawked.

  He stared into her eyes. “Get out of my way.” He put a vicious punch of venom behind each softly uttered word.

  Enid shrank away, stammering.

  He forgot her utterly the second he turned his back on her and hurried after his prey, blood pumping fast and hot and hungry.

  As Liam strode through the lobby, he avoided the hostile gaze of that butthead Peter Morrow as he strode through the lobby. He felt like he was caught in the guts of some pitiless machine, and it would churn on whether he was smashed to a pulp in its grinding gearwork or not.

  He didn’t want to leave her alone, with the stairwell assholes gunning for her. He didn’t want to leave her at all. But that was not his problem. She’d made that clear. It never had been. She wasn’t his wife, his fiancée, even his girlfriend, and she wasn’t going to be. Because relationships weren’t based on fleeting perfect moments. They were based on solid, firm things. Respect. Compatibility. Shared interests.

  Strange, how tired and pat that thought felt. Like he’d thought it a thousand times before, and worn off the nap.

  “Liam!” Eoin bounded across the room toward him like a jackrabbit on crack, his eyes alight like flashlights in his skinny face. He had partied all night long, but he was still revved. “Hey, what’s up?” He looked at Liam’s bag. “I thought you were staying till tomorrow!”

  “Can’t,” he said, though his mouth felt dusty and dry. “Gotta go.”

  “I’m glad I saw you, then. A favor before you go, eh? I’ve been telling Eugene about that set of reels you wrote. I remember ‘The Dusty Shoon,’ and ‘Traveler’s Joy,’ but not the B and C parts of ‘The Old Man’s Beard.’”

  His stomach curdled in dismay. “I have to go. Another time.”

  “Oh, man, please?” Eoin entreated. “It’ll only take five minutes. Eugene has his DAT to record it. I had this great arrangement worked out, and the lads love it!”

  Liam’s jaw ached from clenching so hard. “I don’t have my fiddle.”

  “Eugene will lend you his!” Eoin’s eyes pleaded. “Five minutes?”

  Christ on a crutch. Five minutes of stomach-churning agony. But he didn’t want to burden Eoin by telling him that the world had just ended. He let himself be towed into the small conference room and tucked Eugene’s fiddle under his chin. Tried to compose himself.

  The kid was having such a great time. Let him fly, as far as the air currents would take him. A guy crashed to earth soon enough.

  Liam wasn’t in the lobby. Nor in the parking lot. Nor in the showcase halls, or the alcoves, or the vending machine corners, or the lounge, or the gift shop, or the restaurant. No. He was gone. It was over.

  Sadness settled down, like a smothering blanket. She’d come to depend upon him for feeling good. The world looked wretched and empty, dirt poor without him. And she was so angry. She wanted to break windows, smash furniture.

  She couldn’t have caved to his demand. It took two to make a compromise. If she blew off an opportunity like this out of fear, she’d never respect herself again. And he wouldn’t respect her, either.

  “Ms. D’Onofrio? Are you all right?”

  Nancy dashed away tears, and looked over her shoulder. “What?”

  “Can I get you something?” It was Enid’s Hollywood studio exec. Big, beefy guy. Muscle going to fat. He had a sleek black goatee on his broad face, gleaming black hair. His eyes were full of concern.

  She tried to orient herself, vaguely remembering that this guy was significant for some reason. She was supposed to be kissing his ass.

  “No,” she whispered. “Thanks. I’m fine.” She dug around in her pocket for a tissue. It was coming back to her now, in little fragmented pieces. The studio exec. The time crunch. The plane leaving for L.A. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We were supposed to have a meeting, right?”

  “Yes, but it’s all right. I can see you’re not well,” the guy said.

  Her spine stiffened with embarrassment. “No, actually, I’m fine. You’ve got a plane to catch, so let’s go to the bar and have some coffee.”

  But Sills led her right past the bar and into the restaurant. He walked briskly past the few free booths, and sat down in the oddest spot. A table, not a booth, and way in the back. Out of sight of all but a few of the booths, but annoyingly close to the kitchen door, which continually swung open as tray-laden waitresses bumped and bashed their way through with hips and elbows to carry out orders.

  The waitress brought them a carafe of coffee. Maitland Sills poured and pushed the cup across the table. “You look tired,” he said.

  Did he but know. She gave him a wan smile, and took a deep, grateful gulp of coffee.

  She knew within three seconds that something was wrong. A numb, crawling feeling spread from the tips of her toes and fingers, creeping inward toward her core. Her heartbeat, louder and faster in her ears. She couldn’t move. She was frozen, fighting to keep breathing as the darkness rose. What the hell? Was this a panic attack?

  She looked into the eyes of the MGM studio exec. Her insides flash froze. Those dark eyes, fixed and cold. Reptilian. His mouth, so wet. Her eyes fluttered, and in those brief eyelid flickers, she saw like tiny nano-sized film clips the monstrous thing he was beneath his human mask. Something fanged, tusked. Ravenous and foul.

  His breath was fetid. It smelled like death.

  He leaned forward and pitched his voice low, like a snake’s hiss. “Do you wonder what your mother’s last words were when she was gasping on the floor, Nancy?” he crooned. “Do you want me to tell you?”

  She tried to open her mouth, scream for help. Nothing worked.

  A waitress burst through the kitchen door and bustled past them without looking at them. The open door let a wave of clattering sound swell in volume, then diminish again as it swung shut.

  He reached across the table, seized the pendant Lucia had given her, and began to twist. The burn of the gold chain tightening around her throat kept her conscious. Snap. The chain broke. He pocketed it.

  He got up, came around the table, and reached for her.

  “Let us by!” John bawled. “Move over! She’s going to be sick!”

  He shoved his way through the snarl of employees in the restaurant kitchen. Nancy stumbled alongside him, nearly unconscious. He’d plastered her own hand over her mouth to muffle any sounds she might make, clamping his own hand on top of it. Her hair dangled down to hide her face. He dragged her past a waitress carrying a loaded tray, jostling her hard enough to make her stumble.

  Plates of eggs Benedict flew, splattered. Shouts of protest. He hustled on, bellowing, “She’s going to be sick!” whenever anyone tried to interact with him, and burst out the kitchen entrance. He loped past the Dumpsters, toward the corner and the hotel parking lot.

  He dragged her into the shrubbery, still doubled over, and let her drop, right next to a big fiberglass instrument case that he’d planted there four o’clock the previous morning. It was for an upright string bass, and big enough to carry a slender, curled-up, drugged woman.

  He made barfing, choking noises, for the benefit of any employees who might have poked their heads out of the kitchen, but it was probably overkill, after the mess he’d made in there. They’d be too busy scrambling to clean up and replace orders to pay attention to him.

  He snapped open the case in feverish haste and followed his carefully planned choreography. Rip off goatee and wig. Shove them into the case. Shake out his own shaggy dark hair. Strip off jacket. Replace with a fringed yellow leather jacket. Mirrored aviator sunglasses.

  He scooped up the D’Onofrio woman, dumped her slight, limp weight into the wide part of the case, folded and tucked he
r limbs until she fit. Curled up like a chick in an egg. Soft and helpless. Prey.

  He did up the fastenings, peeked out of the bushes, and yanked the rolling case onto the asphalt. Walking, oh so nonchalantly, toward his car. He glanced at his watch. From restaurant table to parking lot, barely over three minutes. Good show. He forced himself to stop grinning. Wouldn’t do to get sloppy, or too self-satisfied, or overexcited.

  Time enough for excitement later. When it was time to indulge.

  A big-name showcase was about to begin. Liam had gotten stuck in the crowd. He shoved his way through the crush, having finally extricated himself from Mandrake’s clutches. Something inside him was pulled so tight, it hurt like a bastard. When that part snapped, he did not know what would happen. He just knew he didn’t want it to happen in public.

  A high-pitched commotion was taking place. He tried to wiggle around it, but the press of bodies filing into the hall was too thick. It was the blonde, the singer who was married to the butthead. She was having a snit fit. He didn’t particularly want to know the details, but someone was wheeling a fucking piano into the hall. It blocked his way.

  “…can’t believe that guy! That asshole! Can you believe what he said to me?” She caught his eye and promptly directed her outrage toward him before he could turn and shrink away unnoticed. “He shoved me!” she shrieked. “How dare he?”

  “Calm down, baby. Don’t freak. There are concert presenters all over the place,” the butthead pretty boy was muttering desperately.

  “Calm down? Screw you, Petey! I was, like, attacked in public, and all you can say is just calm down?” She turned her bug-eyed blue gaze to Liam. “He shoved me!” she repeated. “I almost fell!”

  “Who shoved you?” Liam asked.

  “The producer asshole, but you know what? I bet he wasn’t a producer at all. I mean, he didn’t look like one. He didn’t have that Hollywood gloss. And he was big and fat, and he had bad breath. Like, nobody’s fat with bad breath in Hollywood! And why would he want to talk to Nancy, and not me? I mean, I’m the talent! She’s just—” Enid struggled for a word sufficiently dismissive—“administrative help!”

  First the hairs on his back prickled, and then icy cold talons sank into his gut. Big fat guy. Bad breath. Wanted Nancy. Shit.

  He grabbed Enid’s shoulders so hard, she squeaked. “Did he go with her? Where did he go?”

  She goggled at him. He gave her an impatient little shake.

  “Do you mind?” she sniffed, wrenching away. “He went after her, toward the restaurant. She’s welcome to him. Rude son of a bitch.”

  “What does he look like?” Liam demanded.

  “Hey!” the butthead Peter blustered. “Don’t touch my wife!”

  “Fuck off,” Liam said, not bothering to look at him. “What does he look like? Hair color, eyes? Talk to me, goddammit!”

  Enid was starting to look scared. “Um, black hair?” Her voice had gotten small and uncertain. “A goatee, and, um, a black leather jacket.”

  He lost the rest, already forging through the crowd amidst shouts and grunts of protest. Fear propelled him toward the restaurant.

  He’d lose too much time if he stopped to get the gun and load it. He jogged through the restaurant, checking all the tables. No Nancy.

  Think, meathead. Think. The door to the kitchen burst open. A harried-looking waitress came bursting out. Behind her, there was some sort of commotion in the kitchen. People were yelling. Good enough for him. He pushed his way through the swinging door. A woman caught sight of him and ran forward, holding up her hands to bar his way.

  “Hey! No customers in here!” she yelled. “Get back!”

  “What happened in here?” he demanded.

  “It was gross,” a round-faced girl standing near the entrance confided. “This lady was sick to her stomach, and the guy gets the bright idea to drag her through the kitchen? That’s so unhygienic! The Board of Health could shut us down for—hey! Where are you going?”

  Liam barreled through the people. He slipped, arms flailing, in a long, harrowing slide down the straight-a-way between two rows of range tops, in a slippery skid of yellowish sauce, barely keeping his feet.

  He pitched out the door, reeling. Loading bay, garbage. No movement. He took off, heart thudding, for the parking lot.

  A harried mother pushing a stroller. A young couple. A retirement age man and his blue-haired wife getting out of a sedan, arguing. Their voices floated over. A big guy in a yellow fringed coat rolling a string bass behind him. No black-haired guy, no black jacket. No Nancy.

  He looked again. Nothing else moved. The man and his wife passed. Their babble did not penetrate his mind. He stared at the parking lot, feeling with all his senses. Doubts niggled. Maybe Nancy was in the hall, safe and sound, conducting her business. And he was out here chasing phantoms created by his own overheated brain.

  And maybe not. Big fat guy. Bad breath.

  He gave the yellow-coated man a second look. The guy slowed to a stop and looked around. Sun glinted off his mirrored sunglasses. He looked at Liam for a second, and turned away, but when he started to move again, he was moving slightly faster. Dragging his big instrument case. It rattled and bumped behind him.

  The case. The fucking case. Oh, sweet suffering Christ.

  He took off running. The guy was opening the hatchback of an SUV. He heaved the instrument up and into the back of it, slammed it shut. Glanced at Liam racing toward him. Dove for the driver’s seat.

  The motor roared. Brake lights came on. Liam was shouting, screaming. The SUV started to pull out. It had to stop and correct. Liam flung himself at the back of the vehicle, yanked at the latch of the hatchback.

  It opened. The guy had been in too big of a hurry to lock it. Liam flung himself inside, next to the case. It lay there like a deformed coffin in a hearse. The guy screamed back over his shoulder.

  Liam scrabbled for something to grab on to as the guy backed up again, with a violent burst of speed, and then braked abruptly.

  Liam slid out the back, dragging the case with him. It toppled, rolled, rocked on the asphalt. Bam, the asshole took a shot at him. Liam flung himself to the side. Zing, another bullet ricocheted off the asphalt.

  A car window exploded. Glass rattled, tinkled. The case was still lying right behind the vehicle’s tires. The SUV had stopped moving.

  Liam guessed the filthy fuck’s intentions and leaped to heave the case out of harm’s way right before the SUV roared into reverse and ran it down. They landed between parked cars in the opposite row. He flung himself onto the case, landing with a bone-wrenching thud, in case the bastard stopped to shoot again. Shouts, screams. People had heard the gun.

  The SUV peeled away, tires squealing. It tore out of the parking lot, ran a light at the corner, and was gone.

  Liam slid off the case onto his ass, shaking. His face was wet. His nose streamed with blood. He turned the case gently right side up and unlatched it with trembling hands, his heart in his throat.

  Nancy was curled inside the padded interior, hair over her face. He felt her throat, rejoicing at the pulse. Scooped her out into his arms and cradled her. He brushed the hair off her forehead, murmuring her name over and over. Alive. Not shot. Not broken. Not taken. Oh, God.

  He was crying. He couldn’t stop. He just sat on the ground, while the commotion buzzed. Rocking her. Holding her.

  Until they pried her out of his arms and took her away from him.

  Chapter

  12

  Nancy stared out the window of her apartment from her seat on the couch. It was full dark, but she couldn’t be bothered to turn on the light. And she was too tired to wrestle the couch down into a bed.

  She should be at the cathedral uptown, where Novum Canticum, her Gregorian chant choir, was having their big New York debut concert. It was an important gig for them, their first well-established classical concert series, and she should be there to support them.

  But she couldn’t get off
the couch. Her ass was weighted down.

  They would understand, of course. Everybody was extremely understanding these days. They were treating her like blown glass.

  She’d tried to stay too busy to be miserable. How could a woman wallow in self-pity when her cell phone never stopped ringing, and her e-mail in-box never had anything less than twenty new messages? She was surrounded by people who needed her. The hub of frantic activity.

  The Jericho gig had been a smash. Peter and Enid were besieged with offers. Record companies that had previously disdained them were making unctuous overtures. Nancy boosted concert fees by a judicious 50 percent and passed out promo packets right and left, wondering why she wasn’t happier. It was finally coming together, and that was something, wasn’t it? All that heroic effort had paid off. Hadn’t it?

  No. It hadn’t. The horrible events in Boston had laid her pathetic emotional stratagems bare. She’d been scrambling for love all these years. And she only knew that because she’d finally gotten some of it. Just enough to know what it felt like, anyway. And now it was gone.

  She’d been better off before. Not knowing.

  No, she hadn’t earned any love from all her heroic efforts. Love couldn’t be earned, or God knew she would have more of it. She finally understood Lucia’s impulse to matchmake. Her mother had wanted so badly to find Nancy someone solid. A man she could lean on. The joke was on them, though. Liam was so solid, he was like an outcropping of volcanic rock. Immovable. A cosmic joke, but she wasn’t laughing.

  She flopped down onto her side, curling around the empty space inside her. Liam had saved her from the guy with the reptile eyes. He’d come to her rescue as heroically as ever, but after snatching her from the jaws of death, he’d decided that his duty as a righteous dude was fulfilled. He’d shaken the dust off his boots and walked into the sunset.

  Not a word from the man. Not a call. Not a peep.

  She was having nightmares, crying fits every night. She’d stayed with her sisters for the most part, but she’d slipped away from everyone tonight. She needed to be alone. Scary though that was.