Never Tell

by Selena Montgomery

  Gabriel continued, undaunted by the attention. More captivating was the pleasure gleaming in her eyes. To keep her smiling, he’d do a chorus line, he realized. He’d do anything. For the moment, it meant making a fool of himself as he marched down Royal singing, “Yes, I want to be in that number.” He grinned down at the lovely woman in his arms and couldn’t imagine a more perfect moment. “Sing with me, Erin darling,” he crooned, and he carried her off the main thoroughfare onto a dimmer street. The sounds from the Quarter still reached them, but the tones were muted. Here a warehouse had been gutted in preparation for condominiums.

  “When the Saints go marching in,” she joined in, her creamy contralto meeting his over the last line.

  Satisfied, he nuzzled her forehead with his own. Close enough to hear her mutter, “Go marching into last place.”

  “Heretic,” Gabriel denounced. He drew back, watching the satisfied smirk spread across her mouth. “I could fall in love with you,” he whispered dazedly.

  Abruptly her smile faded. In his arms she struggled once, and reluctantly he allowed her legs to drop. At the same time, her arms stayed around his neck. Gabriel braced himself for the acid retort, knowing he deserved it. He’d ruined a perfect moment by making an insane declaration even he didn’t want to examine too closely. He bent low to set her feet on the ground and moved to stand. But the arms around his neck didn’t let go. Bewildered, Gabriel met her eyes.

  “What?”

  “Kiss me, Gabriel. Now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because right now, standing here, I could fall in love with you, too.”

  “Erin.” The name emerged on a wisp of longing.

  “Don’t let me think about it. Not too long,” she begged. Then, unwilling to wait, she pulled him to her. In desperate passion, she pressed her mouth to his. For an instant he resisted, and she started to draw away. A ragged sigh rose between them, and her lips curved into a knowing smile. Oblivious to their audience, her past, his career, she fused them together in a kiss that swept through her like lightning.

  He tasted both foreign and achingly familiar, and completely right. Leading, she searched his mouth for answers to questions she didn’t dare to ask. Who was he, this man who could make her laugh? What did he want, this man who could steal her secrets and tell them to the world? Who was she, the woman who’d gone to such pains to reemerge, only to risk it all on this—this wonderful fusion of flesh and want and need? She angled her head and swept beyond the cool silk of his teeth to the delightful danger of his tongue.

  In silent duel, he battled for supremacy, yearning to give her more. Gabriel dragged her flush against him, reveling in the arc of spine, the instinctive undulation of hips. Needing to see her, he watched as she gave herself to the kiss. In reaction, heat poured out of him, and he could have sworn the air shimmered in the seconds before passion forced his eyes to close.

  When his name was murmured between them, he exalted.

  In the vestibule on Sunday afternoon, where the congregants waited to speak with the pastor, noise milled through in waves of whispered sound. The sermon had been particularly affecting, cautioning attentive parishioners against the evils of sloth and greed. Given the mission trip to Panama scheduled for next weekend, no one failed to understand the message. Cash or coins were due.

  Tom Farnen stood near the dehydrated ficus that welcomed visitors to St. Timothy. He curled callused fingers around the damp green check he’d been holding for nearly three hours. The sum on the crinkled paper represented what would have been the whole of his wages for the past month, assuming he still had a job.

  He wasn’t surprised when Ms. Rosalind fired him from Newell Bike and Go. For months his work had been shoddy, ever since he had discovered his true vocation.

  Blessed be, he received his miracles these days in the merciful arms of Harrah’s casino. By the time the slots played out last night, at three in the morning, his two hundred dollars in quarters had been multiplied by the Lord into eighteen thousand dollars.

  “Hi, Ms. Abbott.” Tom smiled shyly at the pretty teacher trying to slip out of the side door. She’d been the one customer he hadn’t neglected. Every two weeks, like clockwork, she brought in her bicycle for service. He rushed to the door and grabbed her arm. “Ms. Abbott!”

  “Mr. Farnen.” After a brief hesitation, she came inside. Coming to church had been a risk, but under the circumstances, she had decided to chance it. She’d arrived late and slunk into the last pew. No speaking to anyone beyond a cursory nod. No chats with the minister. She slipped her collection money into the plate and planned to sneak out before anyone noticed. Her first thought was to be rude, to pretend she hadn’t heard him.

  “Haven’t seen you around the shop lately, Ms. Abbott. Your bike is due for a tire check.”

  Glancing around her, Erin said quickly, “I haven’t ridden much this week. I think it will be safe for a few days.” She tried to free her arm discreetly. “I’ll stop by in a few weeks.”

  Tom wiped his damp brow, the bushy red eyebrows glistening with sweat. She always made him sweat. “Can’t be too careful in this heat. Tires could blow out on you.”

  Desperate to escape, not sure if anyone watched them, Erin bobbed her head in agreement. “I’ll be careful, Mr. Farnen.” She pried her arm loose and shot out the door.

  Tom didn’t take offense at her running away. A teacher had to watch who she associated with. Personally, he had a reputation for gathering sin unto himself like a brothel. Just last year, he’d confessed his fondness for Jim Beam and his cousin Jose Cuervo, a fondness that knew no bounds. The pastor had counseled him to helpful sobriety. Of course, when Tom tested himself in the bar of Harrah’s last October, he’d resisted drink in favor of the swirling lights and siren sound of the slots.

  If he told the pastor his theory, of God’s bounty found not in the drudgery of fixing bikes but instead in the soothing darkness of Harrah’s, would the pastor chastise him for the sin of gambling? Perhaps. So, to allay his conscience, he’d written out a check for 10 percent of his winnings.

  The crowd around the pastor thinned, and Tom inched forward, clutching his donation. The lies to explain his windfall arranged themselves in his head. Unexpected commission? Wouldn’t work, Tom thought ruefully. He’d never earned a commission in his life, and his laziness was legendary.

  Could he claim it was a gift from a dead relative maybe? Good idea, except everyone in the parish knew the Farnen family. No Farnen had left Orleans Parish in seventy years, except his papa for parts unknown.

  A satisfied grin spread across Tom’s mouth, and he nodded his head. Why wouldn’t his papa send him some money? No one needed to know about the casino or the slots or the eighteen thousand. As long as he paid his tithes, surely God would be satisfied.

  Minutes later, Tom emerged into the sunshine, a lighter man. It was nearly one o’clock, which gave him time to shower and shave before returning to the leather stool of his new job. As he’d hocked his car last month, he decided to walk the seven blocks to his home. Tomorrow he’d take six thousand to the car dealer and buy a nice little vehicle to get him about town. No reason to buy a flashy auto, one that would draw attention. He needed the approval of no one, except his God, his church, and his slots. A good trio, he figured.

  “Help!” cried a voice from a side street near Canal, two blocks from home. “Help, please!”

  Filled with a generosity of spirit, Tom turned down the side street. He balled his fists, prepared to come to the aid of the downtrodden. An attack in broad daylight, on the Sabbath no less, could not be tolerated. Disregarding his pencil-stick arms and spindly legs and the fact that a light wind could knock him sideways, Tom charged into the breach, an avenging angel.

  “I’m coming!” he called out to the victim, whose cries had stilled. “Where are you?” Tom halted a quarter of the way inside the dim corridor, where buildings blocked even fervent light.

  “Here,” came the voice, its tone muffled.<
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  Tom turned, and his eyes widened in shock. The gleam of metal blinded him for an instant, and his body shut down. In his mind, he shoved past, ran out onto the street, ran home. In his mind, his balled fist felled his assailant. Legs of iron kicked while fists of steel pummeled. In his mind, he was a hero.

  Before the blade cut into flesh, severing artery, freeing blood, Tom imagined himself invincible. The first strike released his bowels and he whimpered in disgrace. A second hit stopped even the sniveling. Bone cracked. It took a third strike, swung heavily toward the fallen body, to break through sinew and skin and bone.

  The hacksaw vibrated for an instant. Pulling it free, gloved hands turned it toward the light, fascinated by the patterns of humanity on its blade. How easily life ended. How precarious.

  The remains of Tom Farnen lay on the ground, head staring up at an awkward angle. Eyes frozen in fear asked the question he had not.

  “Why?” as the killer checked the body for remnants of Tom’s winnings, the question was asked for him. “Because you helped the bitch. Men, women. We’re all the same. We help her, but she doesn’t see it. She’s too good for us. Men are the most gullible for her type.” The hacksaw was placed near his neck. “She is a parasite. A fraud. And what she doesn’t understand she destroys. But I will finish her first.”

  The paper thudded against her door at dawn on Monday, but Erin was already up. The muggy morning had stolen through the bedroom windows she left ajar, waking her from dreams of tall, handsome men chasing secrets. Chasing her. When the face in the dream shifted from Nathan to a shadowy figure, then to Gabriel, she hadn’t known whether to keep running or to stop and be caught by one of them and face judgment.

  Stumbling out of bed, she went into the living room, where she sat curled into the great chair, sipping tea and trying not to think. Since January, life had been blessedly dull. No stories on the missing Nathan Rhodes. Analise Glover had disappeared, after years of slowly evaporating. If nothing else, she could thank Nathan for giving her the courage to leave. Years as a curiosity to be devoured by scientists and press and passersby had stolen the daring she’d had as a child … .

  “Let me come, Sebastian,” a ten-year-old Analise had whined in the bathroom.

  “I’ve already told you no a hundred times.” Sebastian checked the collar on his shirt. Perfect. He looked like a nice young man out for a walk in the park. Then he patted the cards stashed in his back pocket. In a couple of hours, he’d have enough cash for a beer and cigarettes. Barely fifteen, he’d have to ask one of the older boys to buy for him. But since he’d be treating, they wouldn’t mind.

  Analise read his mind and the telltale pat of his pocket. She folded her arms and tapped her foot. “Take me, or I’ll tell your mom that you’re gambling in Gramercy Park.”

  Sebastian blanched and hauled Analise into the bathroom, slamming the door. If his mother heard her, he’d be grounded until Judgment Day, assuming Saint Peter showed some pity. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Tilting her chin up to give him a smirk, she taunted, “I’m talking about three-card monte and blackjack. I’ve seen you fleecing those stupid people. I saw you in Milan and in London. But I didn’t tell. Now, I want to come, too.”

  “I can’t bring a child with me,” he argued in a low, furious voice. Part of his anger was at himself. He thought he’d been so careful. How was he going to be a professional snoop if a kid could catch him? Still, he consoled himself, Analise wasn’t your average kid. He told her as much. “Plus, you’re too famous. All the adults recognize you from that dumb-ass show you did. Queen of the geeks.”

  Analise flushed. “That was last year. I look older now.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Look like the same snot-nosed know-it-all to me. The freak-geek.” As soon as he’d said it, he wished he could take the words back. Huge tears filled the brown eyes too wide for the narrow face.

  She dipped her head and turned around. The slippery knob refused to twist, and she jerked at the door. When it mercifully opened, she whispered, “I won’t tell Mrs. Cain.”

  Sebastian pushed the door closed. “Go put on some clothes, kid clothes,” he warned, “and meet me at the fire escape in ten minutes.” Gruffly he wiped at the tear that had trickled down her face. “And you’re not a freak-geek, okay? Just a pain in my ass.”

  Nathan’s betrayal had reminded her of who she’d once been. Not an experiment, but a woman of flesh and feelings.

  Now someone was determined to force her to hide again, to flee emotions and feelings she’d thought weren’t possible for her.

  But Gabriel also called to her, demanding she come from the shadows. Become the whole woman, filled with desires and longings and wants. To emerge.

  She made her way to the front door. The sun had risen fully, and a glance at the clock showed that morning had begun in earnest. She opened the door to the hallway and retrieved the paper from the landing.

  Inside, she bolted the door and flipped past the headlines to the Chronicle’s obituaries. Tired eyes skimmed over natural deaths, hoping to see only those who had met a timely end. No one jumped out at her.

  Grimly satisfied, she returned to the first pages of the news and read quickly through the stale recitations the Chronicle pretended were headlines. On the last page, in a narrow column of ink, a local story had made it past the banal national news.

  A mechanic had been found murdered on Locust Street, an offshoot of Canal. Her breath hitched. The body had been left to fester, attracting the police only when someone noticed the smell. They suspected a crime of passion, given that the head had been nearly severed from the body.

  Erin’s hands began to shake. The weapon, the story noted, was a hacksaw. No fingerprints. No motive. Only a wallet identifying the victim as Thomas Farnen.

  Quietly Erin wept as she read further. According to a neighbor, Mr. Farnen had recently lost his job as a salesman and had become a frequent visitor to the casinos. “He acted like slots were his job now,” the neighbor explained. “He even dressed up, like he was going to work.” The police had no other leads. Hoping for more news, maybe information that proved her theory wrong, Erin checked the Ledger’s online edition. They, too, carried the blotter item and a quote from a neighbor. Impulse had Erin shifting the mouse to a link for the ABC Murders article that had run earlier. Again she read her words, analyzing the victims, speculating about what had driven someone to murder them.

  Through the sorrow, her mind supplied the words that would link his death to the others. That would make his murder the eighth in the series.

  Tom Farnen was H. Another life had been added to the tally, as the killer had promised. Another letter closer to retribution.

  Guilt gnawed at her as she burrowed into the sofa, staring at the brief recitation of Tom Farnen’s final minutes. Eyes closed, she recalled the moment in the vestibule, how he’d been sweetly concerned about her. She’d smiled at him, touched. Had that been the instant when Tom lost his life?

  Tom Farnen. Rose Young. Harriet Knowles. Three new names to add to the roster of death, she thought. One name she may have been able to spare, if she’d avoided him yesterday.

  Even as the distressing thought occurred, she knew better. Farnen had been the plan all along. The killer had known of his new avocation, had known of the trips to the bike shop. He knew her life inside out.

  CHAPTER 17

  Erin’s first thought was to call Gabriel. When she couldn’t find him at home or at the Ledger, she made a desperate call to Genevieve that proved equally fruitless.

  Thinking he may have gone to the police station, she phoned Detective Iberville. A bored receptionist informed her that she hadn’t seen Gabriel. Out of options, Erin asked when Sylvie would return. The detective was offduty until two, and no, she couldn’t give Erin her number. If Gabriel showed up, she’d give him the message.

  Bemused by her urgency, Erin hung up the phone. She needed to hear his voice, to feel the touch of his hand taking
hers. When had he become her talisman? Erin wondered. Before, always, she’d been better alone. Once, in crisis, she’d turned to Sebastian, but only because she was too injured to take care of herself.

  It galled her to admit the need tying them together, binding her to Gabriel. More than attraction, he spoke to the woman she wished desperately to become. He saw in her, in a glance, what it had taken her years to see. What she still only half-believed.

  He made her want in ways she never thought she could.

  When the phone rang, she rushed to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Dr. Abbott? It’s Jessica Dawson.” On the other end, Jessica tugged the sheet higher. Behind her, attentive hands tried to distract her from the call. She slapped at him. “I wanted to know if we were still on for today.”

  Erin took a quick look at the clock. It was already nine in the morning. In the midst of everything else, she’d forgotten to cancel her meeting with Dr. Bernard and Jessica. It was too late to cancel, she decided, annoyed with herself. “We said nine-thirty?”

  “I booked the media room for this morning. See you soon.”

  Too soon. Her mind was whirling with thoughts of murder and unfamiliar feelings. She was scared and confused, in no shape to advise a grad student on a project when she could barely help herself.

  With sluggish motions, she turned the taps on in the shower, bundled her hair atop her head. As steam billowed, a glimpse in the mirror revealed what she expected. Bleary-eyed, she looked exhausted and anxious. How was she supposed to function when every person she touched could be in danger?

  It hit her then and she gasped with the comprehension. The fear that crept into her dreams at night, the answer to the puzzling dream with Nathan and Gabriel and the killer.

  “Why didn’t I see it sooner?” She braced herself in the stall, the tiles slick against her clammy skin.

  Nathan was the life she’d fled. Gabriel was the promise of what she could have. But turning to Gabriel meant the killer would follow. Her only choice was to run again.