by L. L. Foster
Authorities refused to acknowledge it as real.
The foster families who occasionally allowed her into their homes thought her a fraud, a faker, and they punished for the pain.
No one understood, and no one knew how she escaped the agony—no one, except Father Mullond. And that good man encouraged her, coached her, helped her gain direction to her purpose and deception to cover her tracks.
As a man of God, he understood her duty more than she ever could have. He made it crystal clear that if anyone found out, she’d be labeled a murderer, and the rest of her days would be spent in prison, or an asylum—where the pain would gnaw on her all the rest of her days.
And so they’d worked together, Father Mullond and her, an odd pair matched by God. Gaby told Father of her auras, shared with him the first niggling of discomfort, and he, through the confessions of a priest, learned the truths behind her visions.
And ultimately, he gave his blessing to each and every slaughter.
Father had changed her life with his understanding, his guidance.
Then he’d changed it again—with his death.
Chapter 2
The memories sent a shaft of pain slicing through Gaby. She pressed a hand to her gut, and glanced at Luther for a needed distraction. “That boy didn’t belong here.”
Eyes keen and wary, Luther watched her. “It’s a free country, Gaby.”
“No, it isn’t, not really.” A rusted can blocked her path; she crushed it with her heel. “But either way, it doesn’t change the fact that he was here for some reason, and he shouldn’t have been.”
“He looked around twelve or so. A kid. And a scrawny kid at that. Surely you don’t consider him a threat to your hookers?”
“My hookers?” That made her roll her eyes. “I don’t claim ownership to the ladies.”
He pressed her. “You consider yourself their protector.”
Rolling one shoulder, she said, “It’s a purpose. That’s all.”
“And you need one?”
“Don’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Isn’t that why you’re a cop?” Even as he annoyed her with his persistence, she felt the encroachment of that odd comfort that always ameliorated her edge when she was in Luther’s close proximity. She sneered, “You want to accomplish things, make a difference?”
He strolled beside her in silence. “You say that like it isn’t possible.”
It wasn’t. But she wouldn’t burst his insulating bubble by telling him so. Not that he’d believe her anyway. Luther was special, but he was also blind to the true depravity of evil.
When she didn’t reply, he finally said, “It’s dangerous for you to hang out with whores, Gaby. Some of them have pimps—”
“Who get real mean on occasion. I know. I’ve seen it. And more.” God hadn’t asked for her intervention with the abusive johns. But she’d given it anyway—and enjoyed herself.
That was something she’d learned since meeting Luther, that righting wrongs—even those simple, quotidian deeds of inhumanity—gave her a great sense of satisfaction, and the feeling that she had some control over her own destiny. She didn’t have to base her every act on God’s demand.
She, Gabrielle Cody, could sometimes act on her own.
Slanting another glance at Luther, she admired the strong lines of his nose, chin, and jaw, the way an evening breeze disrupted his trimmed blond hair—and she found him so visually pleasing, she wished she never had to look away. “I have an understanding with the men who do claim ownership of the ladies.”
Luther muttered a rank curse under his breath, tightened even more, and asked, “Let’s hear it.”
“Not much to hear.” Gaby forced her gaze back to the long stretch of road before them. Haggard vagrants curled in empty doorways; shadowy dealings took place in darkened parked cars; nightlife scurried about, committing conventional crimes and atrocities unworthy of opposition. “They rule the roost, as the ladies allow, but when they cross the line too much . . .” She let her voice fade off, and shrugged. “Shit happens.”
“Shit?”
Satiety unfurled lazily inside her. “In the dark,” she whispered, “where it’s impossible to distinguish a face, things can happen. Things like the slice of a knife where men hope no blade will ever venture.” Her palms tingled in memory of that first, light slice—shallow, superficial, and all the more terrifying for it. She could almost smell the fear of her targets, the memory of it pleasantly scorched into her brain. “It’s effective.”
Luther came to a dead halt. “Jesus, Gaby.”
Facing him, she crossed her arms and cocked out one hip. “When I met you, I was pretty damn stupid about all things sexual.”
Every muscle in his body tensed. “You were innocent, not stupid.”
She shook her head. “No, never.”
“Yes.” He stepped closer. “There’s a difference, Gaby, and I’m well aware of it.”
Fool. Luther might not realize it, but she wasn’t even innocent at birth. She didn’t know what it would be like to have innocence. “I just hadn’t much thought about sex, and I had zero action.” She looked at his throat, at the open collar of his shirt, and her heartbeat grew heavy. “After you, well, I thought about it a lot.” Her gaze came back to his. “The ladies taught me things.”
He stared, fascinated, horrified. Mute.
“Get your mind out of the gutter, cop!” She reached out and shoved him from his stupor. “I don’t mean that I did anything with them.”
He rocked back on his heels. “Thank God.”
“Yeah, He wouldn’t have liked it, that’s for sure.”
“He?”
She shook her head, unwilling to go into her most personal relationship. “I witnessed a lot of stuff. And I had all these questions—”
Luther pokered right back up again. “You asked hookers to educate you on sex?”
“Yeah, but you don’t have to announce it to the whole street.”
He grabbed her arm and drew her toward the closest building. It didn’t offer much privacy, but at least they weren’t in the middle of the walkway.
“I thought we agreed you’d come to me.”
Snorting, she said, “I’d figured on never seeing you again, remember?”
Through his teeth, he said, “It’s not like I could forget.”
Ignoring his ire, Gaby added, “Besides, the ladies proved to be real candid about stuff. Way more so than you or Morty ever were.”
Tilting his head back, Luther groaned to the starry sky.
“Stop dying on me, will you? I’m just saying, now I have a better understanding on what all the hoopla is about—not that the ladies think sex is all that great. For them, it’s a messy chore, but hey, it pays the bills, right?”
Leaning back on the building, his jaw clenched and his eyes zeroed in on her, Luther said, “Selling sex and sharing it with someone special are two different things.”
“Even though it sounds pretty complicated and verging on gross, I think I agree with you. What I felt with you and what I felt when I watched the women—”
“You watched the hookers servicing johns?”
Did he have to keep sounding so appalled? “A few times, yeah. Occasionally some perverted creeps will visit, and I need to keep close, for protective reasons, you know. But my point is—”
“I do not want you watching that warped shit!”
Damn it, now she forgot her point. “Well, Daddy, it’s not up to you, is it?”
He loomed over her. “Do not push me, Gaby.”
“Or what?” she asked, very deliberately giving him a good hard push.
Silence stretched out while he mentally chewed on his response. “I haven’t forgiven you yet for disappearing on me.” He brought his nose to hers. “And I’m still suspicious of every damn move you make.”
That sobered her and sucked the anger out of her veins. Crestfallen, doused in icy reality, she nodded. “I know.”
&nb
sp; Her meekness only ripened his fury. “If you force my hand, I swear to God I’ll handcuff you and drag your scrawny ass to the station where we can sort things out at my leisure.”
She wouldn’t—couldn’t—let him do that. If he ever got her locked away, he might not let her loose again, and that was a risk she couldn’t take.
Without the ability to follow God’s summons, the pain would destroy her. She knew it, she accepted it.
“I believe you, cop, I really do.” Turning away, she said, “And that’s why sex can’t ever happen between us, never mind my moment of— What did you call it? Insanity? That fits.” Strolling off, she added, “You do make me insane.”
In a roar loud enough to disrupt the dead, Luther demanded, “Where are you going?”
“To see Mort.” At least that’d take her a good distance from Luther, and she needed the separation before she got melancholy, or worse, before she broke his jaw. “Is that allowed, cop, or will visiting a friend put me in jeopardy of being arrested?”
In the time that she’d been away from him, Gaby had forgotten the soundless way he moved. Suddenly his hand clamped around her upper arm and he drew her to an uncompromising, but gentle halt.
She didn’t turn to face him.
He didn’t insist.
Leaning down, his mouth almost touching her ear, he whispered, “Seeing Mort tonight is fine—as long as I know where to find you tomorrow.”
“Why would you want to?” she asked, hoping he had a good reason that would miraculously lift the smothering desolation now cloaking her.
Fingertips grazed her skin as he lifted aside her hair and then . . . his mouth touched her throat just above the choker she wore. Damp. Warm. Tingling and exciting. Her heart threatened to escape the bony confines of her chest. Low in her belly, some insidious warmth writhed and wriggled.
Her eyes closed. “Luther . . .”
“When you’re like this, Gaby, you’re far more likable.” He stepped away, met her incredulous, wide-eyed gaze, and smiled. “Meet me here, tomorrow, at seven. It’s important.”
“Bastard,” she hissed.
He looked down at her tightened nipples, lifted a taunting eyebrow, and insisted, “I need your promise, Gaby.”
Slow and exact, she crowded toward him. “I can promise to make you a fucking choirboy if you ever again pull a stunt like—”
In a cheerful mood directly opposite of hers, he laughed, yanked her in for a fast smooch on her mouth, and released her again. “Heard it, and heard it again. But wouldn’t it be easier to just promise me?”
God, he was dangerous to her state of mind. Grudgingly, she said, “I’ll be here.”
“Be careful tonight.”
“Fuck you.”
A shake of his head showed his disapproval. “Same old Gaby—except with new clothes and hair.”
Self-consciousness crept in. “That’s the ladies’ doing.”
“The hookers?”
“They said if I was going to hang around, I needed to fit in.” Truthfully, she’d enjoyed their efforts. They’d painted her hair, and she’d grilled them on the how and why of sexual variations. Not a terrible trade-off.
“I like it. But then, I liked you before, too.” He touched her chin, looked at the choker he’d bought her, still around her throat, and then left.
Gaby stood there until he’d rounded the corner. Since he headed toward the building where she now lived, she would have been worried—except if he knew where she lived, he wouldn’t have exacted a promise from her to meet him on the street.
Right?
She started to follow him, just to make sure, but changed her mind. Seeing Mort was more important.
Tomorrow she’d deal with Luther.
Luther waited around the corner until Gaby had time to leave. When he checked, he saw her walking away, her stride cocky, her presence commanding. His gaze stayed glued to her narrow hips until she faded into the darkness.
Until recently—until knowing Gabrielle Cody—the protector in him would never have allowed a woman to wander the drug- and crime-ravaged area alone. During the day, the neighborhood was a cesspool of corruption where fights broke out every hour, flesh was traded, and drugs were purchased.
At night, the lowest kind of miscreants crawled out, willing to snuff life for a smoke, or sometimes, just for the pleasure of it.
Gaby could care for herself though. She’d proven that time and again.
Still, Luther took out his cell and called Morty Vance, Gaby’s old landlord.
He answered on the second ring.
“ ’Lo?”
“It’s Luther.”
“Hi, Luther. What’s up?”
Cutting to the chase, Luther said, “I found Gaby.”
Silence. And then: “You found her? How is she? Is she okay?”
“She’s the same, Mort.” Well, not really, but he didn’t have time to go into it. “She’s on her way to see you. She should be there soon. If she doesn’t make it, let me know.”
“She’s coming here alone?”
Guilt nudged in, but Luther snuffed it beneath other priorities. “I couldn’t go with her. I have things to do.” Important things. Urgent things. “She’ll be fine.”
“Shit. Which way is she coming? I’ll meet her halfway.”
Bemused, because a near-death experience had neatly matured Morty into a man almost overnight, Luther told him her direction. “You be careful, too, Mort. Stay in the light.”
He laughed. “I’d never find Gaby if I did. She’s a woman who clings to shadows. But yeah, I’ll be careful. Thanks, Luther.” The call disconnected.
A woman who clings to shadows.
Didn’t he know it? When she chose to be, Gaby was an adumbration of humanity, every bit as obscure and hazy as the shifting shadow of a half-moon. Gaby could be there one minute, and if he dared to blink, she disappeared. Part of Luther believed she’d wanted him to find her; if not, he probably never would have. Gaby had many talents, among them the ability to blend into nothingness, to be no one, to . . . not exist.
Putting the phone back in his pocket, Luther headed toward the motel where he’d bet Gaby lived. It was an eyesore, a den of iniquity, but unless summoned, the police turned a blind eye to the crimes committed there.
He’d deceived Gaby on purpose, pretending he had no clue where she resided. For that he wouldn’t feel a single iota of guilt. He didn’t trust her.
He couldn’t.
If he got a chance to talk to the call girls, maybe the manager of the motel, without Gaby aware of it, he might get some new insight on her.
At least, that was the plan.
The building sat close to the street with only a broken, littered walkway separating it from the curb. Most of the windows were painted black or shielded with dark coverings. The red paint on the front door peeled away like blistering skin from a harsh sunburn.
In raunchy poses that exposed overused body parts, three women lounged around. As Luther approached, they sized him up with guarded cynicism—and intuitively recognized him as a cop.
That didn’t convince them to close their legs or their mouths. Lewd comments, void of any real offering, would have brought a blush to a man unaccustomed to such human dreariness.
Luther stopped in front of a redhead wearing layered makeup and smoking a cigarette with ravenous appetite. “I have some questions.”
After blowing smoke in his face, she grinned wide enough to show two missing side teeth. “This ain’t the information desk, sugar.”
“Is the manager inside?”
She laughed. “Now, sugar, you know he ain’t gonna talk to you neither.”
Looking up three stories, Luther guessed that Gaby would be up top somewhere. “I’m looking for Gabrielle Cody’s room.”
“Yeah?” She took another hungry drag on her cigarette. “Who’s that?”
Luther could be patient when need be. “Tall, thin girl. Quiet. Deadly.”
The whore shru
gged. “Don’t ring no bells.”
“What’s your name?”
She eyed him. “Betty.”
“Well, Betty.” Luther pulled out his badge, and finished by saying, “Either you start talking, or I bust all three of you.”
Flicking away the cigarette and straightening with apprehension, she demanded, “For what?”
Using the edge of his badge, Luther tapped the inside of Betty’s fleshy thigh. “Indecent exposure, for starters. You’ll probably be held up for hours—and that’ll make it tough to reach your quota for the day, now won’t it?”
In rapid succession, sounding like a pack of pissed off banshees, the women told him to fuck himself in ways unimaginable, and surely impossible.
“Fine.” Luther pulled out his radio. “Have it your way.”
From behind him, a man said, “Hold up, cop.”
Luther turned, found a tall, lean, and muscled man behind him. Given certain traits, he likely had a mixed racial background. Given his clothes and attitude, Luther knew he was a pimp.
“And you are?”
Through narrowed eyes partially concealed by blue-tinted sunglasses, the fellow watched him. “An innocent bystander.” He grinned to show off a gold tooth. “What do you want with the girl?”
Sensing an ally, Luther moved closer. “Actually, Ms. Cody is a friend more than anything. I want to know what she’s up to, that’s all.”
Luther stiffened when the man withdrew a knife from his back pocket, but he only flicked it open to clean his nails. “Tell you what, cop. If you’ll get her out of my hair, I’ll help however I can.”
Viewing his assistance as traitorous, the women started grumbling and grousing to themselves. The man shouted, “Shut the fuck up! Get off your lazy asses and head up the street a ways.”
“I was taking my break,” Betty protested.
Jaw locked, the man took a threatening step toward her. “You want a break, bitch?”
“No, Jimbo.” She ducked, covering her head until she realized he had stopped short of reaching her. Then she hurried away.
“Stupid bitches,” Jimbo spat as he moved back to rest his spine on a lamppost. “Lazy sluts, every fucking one of them.”