by Anne Stuart
Mouser would smarten him up. He could always count on Mouser to make him see things clearly, whether he wanted to or not. And Mouser would always go to a meeting with him. He’d walk over to his place and talk him into driving him to St. Anne’s. It was getting cold. He’d run over to his place before he froze his balls off.
But Mouser’s place was dark. He lived on the first floor of a decrepit apartment building, and he slept with a light on. He was afraid of the dark—a weakness he admitted to few, but Dillon knew it. Yet his apartment was pitch black.
He knew where Mouser kept the spare key, and he heard the cats before he even opened the door. It had always been a source of amusement to him, Mouser’s fondness for cats. He was a sucker for any stray that wandered by—it was no wonder he was so protective of Jamie. He currently had three cats who were now weaving their way around Dillon’s ankles, making plaintive, hungry noises.
He’d always told Mouser he didn’t like animals, and of course Mouser didn’t believe him. He leaned down and picked up one scraggly bundle of fur, rubbing the head of another, and headed into Mouser’s tiny kitchen.
The cat food dish was empty. Which was crazy—Mouser doted on his felines. He never would have left them without food.
He poured some food into the bowls, and was immediately rewarded with a couple of loud purrs, another body weaving around his ankle, while a third decided to sharpen his claws on his shin before settling in to eat.
He flicked on the light in the kitchen. Supposedly cats could see in the dark, but Mouser wouldn’t want them left in an unlit apartment.
He should leave him a note before heading out to the meeting. But he had a cold, certain feeling that Mouser wasn’t coming back.
Mouser’s upstairs neighbor, a plump widow with a similar fondness for strays, promised to look after the cats until Mouser returned. At least they wouldn’t starve to death in the apartment. Mouser would never have forgiven him if he let that happen.
He walked down the snowy street, heading toward St. Anne’s. It was a long walk, he didn’t have a coat, and he didn’t give a shit. Too much had happened in the last twenty-four hours. He was usually the most cynical, pragmatic, grounded person he knew. Now he was having morbid fantasies and was on the verge of falling in…
Hell, no. He just needed a meeting to help clear his head. He’d swing by Mouser’s apartment on the way home, where he’d find his old friend with a perfectly reasonable excuse for why he’d disappeared. And when he went back to the garage, if Jamie wasn’t gone, he’d pick her up, drop her in her car and lock the doors behind her.
Or maybe he wouldn’t pick her up. Touching her tended to get him into trouble. If she hadn’t left he could drive her out with words easily enough.
But he was counting on her to leave.
He lit a last cigarette before heading into his meeting. Sunday night at St. Anne’s was a crowded one, and the coffee was awful, but it would be hot. And maybe things would start to make a little sense.
Jamie sank down into one of the kitchen chairs, staring at the door in disbelief. He’d simply walked out on her. Brought her to that point, so that her nerve endings screamed, her skin prickled, and she could barely breathe, and then walked away.
He must have gotten over his obsession awfully fast. It hadn’t taken much to get him past twelve years of wanting, she thought bitterly. Whereas in her case, she was just starting.
Fuck him. Fuck them all. She was tired of feeling vulnerable, needy, helpless. He’d let the air out of her tires? She’d seen the compressor, and she was equipped with a brain and determination. She could figure out how to fill the tires with air and then get the hell out of there before he returned. That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? That was what they both wanted.
And if she couldn’t, then she’d simply take any car she could start. Except for the yellow Cadillac. If that was her only choice she’d walk barefoot through foot-deep snow rather than get back in that damned car.
She’d never been alone in the huge old building before, at least, not that she’d been aware of. Without Dillon’s music thundering through the place it felt empty, desolate. Almost haunted.
Her sneakers were bloody from her fall through the floor, but that was the least of her worries. She shoved her feet back in them, then headed into the garage, refusing to look behind her. She never could rid herself of the feeling that someone, something, was watching her, and now, in this empty place, that feeling was more powerful than ever.
She could hear the old building creak in the cold. The faint sound of movement overhead—more rats, presumably. The howl of the strong Wisconsin wind, rattling the windows and shaking the garage doors. And the sound of her footsteps as she walked across the cement floor to her poor old Volvo.
She kept her gaze averted from the Cadillac, deliberately. She could have kicked herself for her behavior earlier. She’d done just what he wanted, playing into his hands perfectly. He got to have her in the back seat of his goddamned convertible, where he should have had her years ago. Dillon, not Paul.
Oh, not that she’d had anything to do with it, she mocked herself, heading toward the stereo. Whose idea was it to go down on him, when the very thought used to disgust her? Who was still teetering on the brink of arousal, and which of them had walked away without a second thought?
Fooling herself was a waste of energy. She may as well face the facts—she’d always wanted Dillon Gaynor, and chances were she always would. He was a teenage fantasy come true. But it was time to grow up.
She couldn’t stand the eerie silence of the garage. She wasn’t about to put on Nirvana, but he had some REM as well as some U2 CDs, and she put one on at random, cranking the volume up loud before she approached her car.
The compressor was a little more complicated than the kind they had at gas stations, and it didn’t come with a pressure gauge. There was no way she could tell how much air she put in the tires, but she figured she’d just fill them by sight and then stop somewhere once she got out of this place and have a professional adjust them.
Three of the tires filled easily enough, but the fourth decided to give her shit. After the third try she realized the damned tire had been slashed.
Why would Dillon do that when he’d only wanted to slow her down? Why would he ruin one of her tires? He was more likely to take a sledgehammer to the front windshield—if there was one thing Dillon Gaynor wasn’t, it was petty.
And if there was one thing Jamie Kincaid wasn’t, it was defeated. She’d changed tires before—she could change them again.
She stood up, feeling suddenly light-headed. Not enough food, she thought absently, putting a steadying hand on the bumper of the car. Except that the very thought of food made her stomach lurch.
She’d take care of feeding herself as soon as she got the hell out of there. She walked around to the trunk of the Volvo. There was a dark stain spreading on the cement beneath it, and she cursed beneath her breath. So much for Dillon’s assurance that her car was running better than ever. It had some kind of oil leak, or brake fluid. Something dark and viscous in the shadows beneath the car.
She was just about to open the trunk when the stereo switched to the next song. And she froze.
Bono’s plaintive voice filled the garage, and Jamie didn’t know which hurt more, her churning stomach or her heart. The music was love and sex, howling through her soul.
Her head wasn’t feeling too hot, either, but she pushed away from the Volvo, determined to stop that damned song before it made her burst into tears. She would have run, but for some reason she seemed to be moving in slow motion. The smell of exhaust that always permeated the garage was stronger than ever, and by the time she managed to figure out how to turn off the thundering stereo that had been so easy to work a short while ago, she was ready to pass out.
There should have been silence in the empty garage. But there wasn’t. A car engine rumbled ominously.
She started toward the cars parked along the l
eft side of the garage, only to realize that the sound was coming from all around her. More than one car engine was busy pumping carbon monoxide into the room, and it was no wonder she was either going to throw up or faint.
Her best bet was to get the hell out of there before she passed out. She tried to run toward the kitchen door, but it was like running in Jell-O. She stumbled, and her feet got tangled up beneath her, and she went sprawling onto the cement floor.
She tried to push herself up, but her arms were like spaghetti beneath her. She sank back again, her cheek resting against the rough pavement, and she felt her eyes begin to close. If she didn’t get up she was going to die. It was that simple. There was only one person who could have turned on those engines, one person in this big empty building. Dillon must have come back when she wasn’t looking, to finish what he started earlier.
It didn’t make sense. He had no reason to want to kill her. But maybe a man named Killer didn’t need a reason. And maybe he was just tired of having to deal with her.
She tried to move, to drag herself toward the door, but she couldn’t. She tried to open her eyes, and she thought she could see someone standing just inside the closed doorway.
“Help…me….” she said in a croak, but the narrow figure didn’t move. Any why would she think he’d help her, if he was the one who’d done this to her?
Her eyes felt like lead, but she forced them open, staring at the man in the shadows.
And then she knew she was dying, and there was nothing she could do about it. Because Nate was there, standing over her, waiting for her to join him. And she stopped fighting.
He looked down at her with real affection. It didn’t matter that she and Dillon had been going at it like rabbits. She’d always been his little sister, she’d always thought he was wonderful, and he’d liked that uncritical appreciation. Of course, she had no idea who and what he was. Adoration based on ignorance wasn’t worth much in the long run.
Aunt Isobel, on the other hand, knew exactly who he was. And what he’d done. The things he’d keep on doing. And she loved and protected him, anyway. Smothering him with her unquestioning protection. And not just for her dead sister’s sake. She saw him as her real child. She’d married her second cousin to keep the Kincaid line strong, and in the end she’d been unable to conceive. Only Nate was left, and he was the center of her life. Jamie had always been more of an afterthought, at least as far as Isobel was concerned.
Dying had been the best thing that had happened to him in a long time. For the first time he’d been released from Aunt Isobel’s obsessive devotion, and it was enormously freeing. He’d recommend death to almost anyone—his ghostly existence was by far his favorite part of his life so far.
Jamie had passed out completely, and he walked over to her, staring down at her sprawled body. There was a special pleasure in killing someone who loved you—a thrill that couldn’t be found any other way. Jamie had given him that gift, and he felt almost tearful with gratitude. He squatted down, touching the pulse at the side of her neck. Slow. Almost nonexistent. He rolled her onto her back. Dillon had been inside her—he’d watched them. If he screwed her dying body it might almost be like screwing Dillon. Something he’d wanted for a long, long time.
But the room was filled with poison, and he couldn’t linger. Besides, Dillon might come home.
He pulled her loose T-shirt up, took a knife and sliced through her bra. She had marks on her breasts, from Dillon’s mouth, from the roughness of his beard.
The knife was very sharp. He’d cleaned it after he’d finished with Mouser, sharpened it again. He was a man who appreciated his tools and took loving care of them.
Her skin was pale, soft. It shouldn’t just be Dillon’s mark on her flesh. He took the razor sharp tip of the knife and pressed it against Jamie’s skin.
When he finished he pulled the T-shirt back down, and the tracings of blood began to soak through the cotton. He leaned over and kissed her slack mouth, using his tongue. And then he rose.
Carbon monoxide shouldn’t hurt a dead man. How many times could a man die?
But he wasn’t ready to see Dillon. He’d go back to one of his vantage points and wait for him to return. Wait for him to find Jamie’s body. And then the fun would begin.
When Dillon left the church basement the snow had started falling again. It was going to be a hell of a winter, if late November and early December were anything to go by. He didn’t mind—he preferred the deep snow to the icy rain that had been prevalent back in Rhode Island. Hell, he preferred everything in Wisconsin to life in Rhode Island. Except for Jamie Kincaid.
And now here she was. And there she’d go. He’d fill her tires when he got back, unless of course she’d figured out how to do it herself. If she was determined enough she’d manage it, and he’d left her in a very determined state.
He should be feeling better. Usually after a meeting he felt grounded, centered, not the total fuck-up he really was. But not tonight. Tonight he’d checked his watch, and he hadn’t listened to a word the speaker had said. And when everyone headed out for coffee afterward he begged off, for the first time in years. The after-meeting coffee times were almost better twelve-step programs than the actual meetings. But all he could think of was that he had to get back. Had to find Mouser. Had to make sure Jamie was safe. Make sure that his irrational, eerie suspicion didn’t have an ounce of truth to it.
He headed back at an easy run. He had to keep himself warm, didn’t he? And running was the best way to do it. He wasn’t really worried that anyone was in any kind of danger. After all, who could possibly be a threat to Jamie?
But he knew. Deep inside, he knew, and he felt sick that he’d left her alone.
She would be getting her behind out of his garage, out of his fucking state, as fast as she could. Maybe once he found out what was really going on he might go after her. Though probably not. Once he managed to get rid of her, he’d be a fool to seek her out. She had too strong an effect on him, and distance was the best cure for that.
He could hear the music from almost a block away. Nirvana, cranked up almost to ten, shrieking in rage and pain. What was she doing in the garage? And what was she doing listening to Nirvana when her tastes ran more to mournful girl singers than screaming rockers?
Maybe she’d managed to fill her tires and drive away. But the garage door would be open—she wouldn’t have bothered closing it behind her, she would have just gotten the hell out of there. In fact, the snow was piled high against the bottom of the door, sealing it.
Sealing it. The kitchen door was locked, when he never locked it, and even when he used his key it was jammed. He slammed his body against the door, once, twice, and if finally flew open, the chair that was blocking it splintering beneath the force of his body.
He could smell it—the carbon monoxide seeping under the doorjamb. He didn’t hesitate—Jamie hadn’t left, and she wasn’t upstairs. She was in that garage filled with poisoned air.
He kicked the door open. The blue haze of car exhaust floated a few feet above the cement floor and it took him a moment to see her, sprawled on her back between the row of cars.
Later, he couldn’t remember scooping her up and racing out of there with her. She was still breathing, and her pulse was steady, but he had no idea how long she’d been in there.
Even the kitchen stank of exhaust, so he simply carried her outside and put her down in the snow. She stirred, and he left her for a moment to grab a pile of coats to cover her with.
Four of his cars were running, filling even the cavernous spaces of the garage with carbon monoxide. He turned the damned music off first, then tried to turn off the cars.
None of them had keys in the ignition. Someone had managed to jump-start them, and he knew damned well that was beyond Jamie’s capabilities. In took him only a moment to rip out the wiring that kept the motors running. He forced the garage door open, letting the poison out into the night air, and then ran to Jamie’s body. She wa
s shivering—no surprise since she was lying on a pile of snow, and he threw the coats aside and pulled her into his arms.
She moaned, and her eyes fluttered open. She couldn’t seem to focus, and he knew he had to get her to a hospital, fast, when she suddenly yanked herself out of his arms, turned and vomited in the snow.
He held her, anyway, and she was too weak to fight him. She didn’t have much in her stomach, and he realized belatedly that he hadn’t been feeding her properly. When she’d gotten rid of everything and there was nothing left but dry heaves, he pulled her back in his arms, and she buried her face against his chest as he stroked her damp, flushed face.
“I need to get you to a hospital,” he said after a while. He was kneeling in the snow, holding her, and he was cold, wet and uncomfortable. And he didn’t want to move, didn’t want to let go of her.
She shook her head, the movement unmistakable against his chest. “No,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“You passed out. God knows how much of that shit you’ve got in your system. We’ll take your car, and if they agree you’re okay then you can get right away from here.”
“We can’t take my car. You slashed the front tire, remember?”
His heart had stopped racing and his brain had finally started working. “I didn’t slash your tire.”
She didn’t say anything, just turned her face closer to his chest, like a kitten seeking comfort. He had to ask her the question he didn’t want to. He doubted her automotive skills extended to jump-starting antique automobiles, but who else could it have been? Who else was there?
“Were you trying to kill yourself? Tell me the truth, Jamie?”
She looked up at him then, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Just because I’m stupid enough to be in love with you doesn’t mean you’re worth committing suicide over.”
He blinked in surprise, but she didn’t seem to realize what she’d said. “Someone was there. I had the stereo on loud and I didn’t hear anything until it was too late.”
