by Anne Stuart
Who was she fooling? Of course he wasn't who he said he was. He was just a man. An extraordinary man. A man she was fool enough to be in love with. But a man.
"Can I hold the baby?" she asked Billy.
Billy glanced over at Mary, who nodded permission. He placed him in Helen's arms with a sure touch astonishing in so new a father, and as Helen settled into the chair he'd just vacated, the baby snuffled, shoving a tiny fist into his mouth.
"He's absolutely gorgeous," Helen whispered, as a wave of longing swept over her. Rafferty had lied about so many things. Perhaps, if she were really lucky, he might have lied about the possibility of her getting pregnant.
"I need to talk to you, Billy," Rafferty said, still standing by the door.
"What about?" It was Mary's question, her voice disturbed.
"Don't worry, Mary, I'm not taking him anywhere. We'll be right outside the door for a few moments."
Helen watched as Mary schooled her emotions, managing a tight smile. The door swung silently shut behind them, and Mary leaned back against the stack of pillows.
"I know I'm being silly," Mary said in a weepy tone of voice.
"It's hormones," Helen said pragmatically, gently stroking the baby's tiny hand.
"So they tell me. I think I'd be happier if I were home, but Billy has this bee in his bonnet. If it were up to him, I'd be here on my back for a full two weeks just as the women of his mother's generation."
Helen looked down at the baby's sleeping face as Mary's words penetrated, and a disbelieving panic swept over her. "Billy would have been born in the sixties," she said carefully. "Women didn't spend more than a few days in the hospital back then."
Mary's face turned pale. "Of course. I don't know what I was talking about," she said nervously, guiltily. "And besides, I ought to be grateful I have a few extra days of rest. I certainly could use it. Labor wasn't that long, but it's exhausting, and I—"
"He was born in the 1960s, wasn't he?" Helen broke through Mary's babbling.
There was dead silence in the room, broken only by the even, snuffling sound of baby Jamey's breathing, as Mary stared at her. "I can't believe he told you," she said finally. "Billy said Rafferty had never told a living soul…"
"Told me what, Mary?"
Mary let out a nervous little moan, clapping her hands over her mouth. "Nothing."
"You don't believe that story, do you?" Helen persevered, trying to hold on to her own sanity. "Did Billy tell you the same pack of lies, about being from the 1920s? You can't have believed it!"
"He didn't…I mean, I don't…" Her voice trailed off, as her big eyes filled with tears. "I don't want to talk about it."
Helen stared at her, torn by guilt and exasperation and a very small trickle of fear. How could Mary have swallowed such a pack of lies? They had to be lies, didn't they?
The door opened, and Billy breezed back in, a calm, affable expression on his face that Helen didn't believe for a moment. There was no sign of Rafferty.
"Let me take this little bundle of joy from you, Ms. Emerson," he said, scooping the tiny infant from Helen's gentle hands. "Kind of makes you think about starting a family yourself, doesn't it?" he said cheerfully. "Nothing like a baby to make a man realize what matters in this life."
"Where's Rafferty?"
"He had to check on a few things," Billy said easily. "He said you had a little trouble with Willie Morris. I'm sorry about that—I should have warned you, but I didn't know quite how dangerous he was. And I was a little worried about Mary and the baby. I have to thank you again for dropping the charges. I don't know what I would have done if Mary had gone into labor and I'd been stuck in Joliet."
Helen watched as he tucked the baby back into the little bassinet. "Why don't you tell me your version of the past," she said evenly. "I've already heard Rafferty's spin on things."
He looked just as shocked as Mary had. "Rafferty told you?" he echoed.
"Of course I didn't believe him. I'm not as gullible as I look."
"Of course," Billy said vaguely, obviously trying to get his bearings. "That Rafferty's a great kidder. I always told him he should've been a writer. For Buck Rogers or something."
"Buck Rogers?" Helen echoed.
Billy suddenly looked very nervous. "I mean 'Star Trek.' Something like that. He's got a great imagination, has Jamey. Though he shouldn't oughta have pulled your leg, Ms. Emerson. I'll tell him so, when he gets back."
The more Billy babbled, the worse it got. Helen sat in the chair as numb fear washed over her. "When was Rafferty born, Billy?"
"November 4."
"What year?" she pushed it.
"Eighteen ninety… I mean, nineteen… er… uh… Hell, I don't know," Billy said frantically. "I was never any good at math."
"I'll make it easy on you. What year were you born?"
"Nineteen sixty-seven," he said quickly.
"You memorized that one."
"Ms. Emerson," he said earnestly, "don't ask questions when you don't want to know the answers. Or when you don't want to believe the answers. Just leave things as they are, okay, and everything will be fine. Rafferty will take care of business, and you'll be safe."
"What's he planning on doing?" The fear that was trickling down her spine was now increasing to a rush of panic.
"Look, just mellow out. Everything's copacetic." He didn't even seem to realize how out of place his words were. "He'll be back in no time."
"And if he's not?"
"Then we'll have to think of another way to get you out of here," Billy said.
The day's newspaper was lying folded on the table beside the visitor's chair. "Okay," she said. "I'll just sit here and read the paper, until you decide to tell me the truth."
"Billy!" Mary's voice was sharp with warning. The baby awoke with a shrill cry, just as Billy dove for the newspaper.
Helen was too fast for him. She flipped it open, staring at the headlines, the grainy photos, with no recognition whatsoever.
"Why don't you want me to read the paper?" she asked calmly, holding it tightly. "Am I supposed to be surprised by the state of the economy or political corruption?"
"It's just bad news, Ms. Emerson," Billy said. "Give it back to me and I'll toss it."
"I'd rather find out what it is you don't want me to see," she said, flipping open the first page.
It was there, right in front of her. A feature article about Chicago's most famous Valentine's Day, complete with police file photos. There was a grainy shot of a row of bodies, lined up on a cement floor. Beneath it were period photos of Al Capone and Bugs Moran. And a smaller photo of a man who could be none other than Willie Morris.
"Oh, God," Helen said in a quiet, horrified voice. She stared at the blurred photo of the dead bodies, and she could see one who looked eerily like the man standing across from her, misery on his young face.
She looked up at him. "It can't be true," she said flatly, still fighting it.
Billy moved to Mary's bedside, taking his wife's hand in his and squeezing tightly. "I don't know what I can tell you, Ms. Emerson."
"Tell me where Rafferty is."
"He had a few errands…"
"No," she said sharply. "In the picture. I don't see Rafferty's body."
Billy swallowed. "He…didn't die right away. He managed to crawl to the door of the garage. The police found him there."
"Oh, God," Helen whispered, shoving her fist into her mouth to stifle the urge to scream.
"Listen, no one knows why this happened to us," Billy said earnestly. "Least of all Rafferty. He was the best of us—he kept away from the dirty parts of the business, said no when the rest of us didn't dare. But we've all come through, all except for him. He must care about you, if he was able to tell you the truth."
"Where is he now?" She marveled at how calm she sounded. How rational.
"He's gone after Drago."
"No!" she cried, leaping from the chair and heading for the door.
Billy w
as ahead of her, stopping her, and he was stronger than he'd seemed. "I promised I'd keep you here until he got back, Ms. Emerson. I'd never break my promise to a man like Rafferty. He'll stop Drago. If he can't, no one can, and you're a dead woman. I don't think Rafferty could handle that."
"I can't let him…"
"No one lets Rafferty do anything. He decides," Billy overrode her, looking stubborn. "If he's not back by eleven o'clock, you're supposed to change into a nurse's uniform he stole for you. Then you hide out under the bed until your family can come get you."
Helen was five feet nine, and slender. Billy was an inch taller, scrappy, a street fighter. Helen was no match for him, but she didn't even hesitate.
She shoved her fist into his belly, hard, surprising him more than hurting him, and he doubled over just enough for her to take him off guard, hauling him out of the way and racing into the corridor. There was no sign of Rafferty's tall, wiry body, no sign of anyone familiar. The door opened behind her, but she took off, speeding down the hallway with a blind disregard for new mothers taking an early constitutional.
She could hear Billy thundering after her, but she ignored him, listening to her instincts, determined to find Rafferty before he could disappear, before he could make the ultimate sacrifice. The corridors were endless, crowded, anonymous, with no sign of him.
She had her choice—the elevators or the stairs. She headed for the stairs, for the door that was left ajar, taking them two at a time, her sneakered feet thudding on the metal treads, her breath rasping in her throat as she climbed upward, upward, uncertain of what she would find, terrified that she would only face death. Following her instincts and her heart in her need to reach Jamey Rafferty.
She reached the top floor, the landing dark and deserted, the light bulb burned out. She reached for the door, but it was locked, trapping her in the darkness. And behind her she could hear footsteps, slow, steady, deadly.
She yanked again at the door to the top floor, panicked, and this time it opened. She fell into the corridor, and hands caught her, hard, painful hands, wrapped around her wrists like manacles in the darkness.
"Damn it, Helen," Rafferty cursed, hauling her upright. "What are you doing here?"
The top floor of the hospital was deserted, the halls lined with storage, only a dim light illuminating the space. She stared up at him, at a man from another time and place, and her fear vanished. "I was looking for you."
He closed his eyes in brief exasperation, then shook her, hard. "I'm trying to save your life. I told Billy to keep you safe…"
"He did his best. I punched him in the stomach."
"Helen," he said, shaking his head in despair. "Mary's not going to thank you for that. You've got to get out of here. Go back to Mary's room and hide. I don't know when Drago's going to show up, I only know it's going to be tonight. This isn't a game we're playing, even if you don't want to believe me. I've known Drago for longer than you could believe possible, and he hates me almost as much as he hates you. He wants to kill you while I'm around, so that he can get the pleasure of watching my reaction."
She didn't move, taking what small comfort she could from his hard hands on her arms. "What makes him think you'll care that much?" she asked, aware of the absurdity of this conversation in a darkened, deserted hospital hallway, talking with a man returned from the dead, asking questions while a madman stalked her.
"He knows me." Rafferty's voice was bleak.
"And he knows what a knight in shining armor you are beneath your gangster pinstripes?" she said.
"No." He released her wrists, pushing his hands through her thick brown hair, running his thumbs across her soft lips. "He knows me better than that. He knows I've finally found my fatal weakness. If he kills you, then he destroys me, much more effectively than a hundred tommy gun bullets ripping into my flesh."
Helen shivered. "It's true, isn't it? You weren't making it up? I saw a picture…"
"Don't think about it, Helen," he said. "Don't think about any of this. It's just a bad dream, a nightmare, like your dreams about gunfire and dogs howling. It happened a long time ago—you don't have to worry about it, you don't have to think about it. All you have to think about is this." He put his mouth against her, gently, his tongue touching her lips, and she sank against him with a shaken sob, clutching him tightly, so tightly, as if she could fight the twisted whims of fate and fortune.
He kissed her cheekbones, her eyelids, her temples and her earlobes. He kissed her neck, her shoulders, he pulled her hips tight against his, so that she could feel how much he wanted her, and her own response heated and flowed, longing for him.
When he finally broke the kiss his expression was that still, scary one that no longer had the power to unnerve her. Except that she knew the determination that lay behind it.
"I want you to go now," he said, pulling her hands from around his neck, where she wanted to cling forever. "I want you to go back down those stairs and forget about me. There's no way we can change it, even if we wanted to."
"Even if we wanted to… ?" she echoed, incensed.
"You deserve better than me, counselor," he said, and his mocking smile was back in full force. "You deserve someone noble and pure, someone who can give you the things you deserve… "
"You deserve a brain transplant," she snapped back. "How dare you tell me what I want, when what I want, what I need, what I deserve is you—"
"I didn't know they did brain transplants," he interrupted, the humor reaching his eyes as she fought for him.
"They don't. But I'm proposing you for the first candidate. I love you, Jamey. Haven't you listened to a word I've said? I love you, I love you, I love…"
His mouth silenced her, hard and hot and wet. He pushed her against the wall and kissed her as if his life depended on it, kissed her as if it were his last act on this earth. He kissed her with his heart and his soul, his tongue and his lips, his body and his mind, and she thought she might climax from the sheer power of it.
"Go away," he said, breaking away from her.
"I can't."
"Damn it, Helen…"
"Damn it, Rafferty," she mocked, no longer caring. "I can't go back down the stairs."
"Why not?"
"Because someone was following me. And I'm pretty sure it was Drago."
And then she was frightened. By the murderously bleak expression on his face. The resignation in his strong, lean body, and she had the sudden, hideous feeling that things were spinning out of her control, that death and despair were approaching from that deserted stairwell, and nothing Rafferty could do would stop it.
They heard the noise together, the scrape of footsteps, the turning of the doorknob. "Run," Rafferty ordered in a harsh whisper. "Run like hell." And he pulled her gun out of his coat pocket, holding it with both hands, training it toward the door.
Helen couldn't move, sickened, terrified. "Have you ever killed anyone before?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Rafferty…"
"Run, damn it."
Helen wheeled around, finally prepared to obey. Only to come face-to-face with Ricky Drago's mad eyes.
It all happened in slow motion, and yet at lightning speed. Helen screamed, in warning, in terror, just as Billy's voice could be heard on the other side of the locked door, pounding, calling to Rafferty. Rafferty whirled around, aiming the gun, but Drago had already caught Helen, hauling her up against him, using her as a shield.
"Too bad, Rafferty," Drago said with a wheezy little chuckle. "I didn't want to play it this way. But you've been too good. You always were. Maybe this time you'll finally get the peace you deserve." And raising the gun he held in his right hand, he aimed it point-blank at Rafferty's face.
And fired it.
Chapter Thirteen
« ^ »
Rafferty was dead. There was no other possibility, not with a gun fired at point-blank range. Helen's mind accepted that unalterable truth, even as her heart fought it. She screamed, kicki
ng and clawing at Drago, desperate to get to Rafferty's fallen body, but even in her wild state Drago was too strong for her. She half expected him to use that gun on her, the gun that smelled of cordite and death, and she didn't care. She wanted to be with Rafferty, and if he was dead then her own life had little meaning.
She yanked herself away, stumbling to her knees beside his body, flinging herself on top of him as he lay facedown on the linoleum floor. Behind the door she could still hear Billy, shouting, and with her last ounce of energy she screamed out a warning. She didn't even see the gun coming, feel it slam against the side of her head. All she knew was blackness.
She floated for a while, in a sea of loss and confusion. She knew someone was carrying her, someone she hated. She could feel the hardness of a shoulder digging into her stomach, hear the muffled grunts as she was hoisted through space. She wondered whether she were dead, whether she was going to find Rafferty in this dreamlike limbo. Whether they'd return together, every Valentine's Day, to live out the last two days of their lives.
In her dreamlike state she no longer had any doubt that Rafferty had told her the truth. It all made its own weird kind of sense. But there were still a thousand questions unanswered. Had she joined Rafferty in death? Or was Rafferty somewhere else, his endless cycle of Valentine Days over with at last?
Everything hurt. Her head, her heart, her mind and soul. She couldn't, wouldn't think about it. The blackness beckoned, a safe, nurturing blackness, far away from the labored giggles of the madman who carried her. And she welcomed the blackness, searching for Rafferty within its velvet confines.
Billy slammed through the safety door, coming in low to avoid gunfire. In the shadowy stillness of the unused hospital corridor he thought at first that it was deserted. Until he saw Rafferty lying facedown, unmoving.
"God, no!" Billy moaned, running to his side, tugging at him. The sound of gunfire had filled him with dread—Drago wasn't the kind of man who missed often, and according to Rafferty, he'd missed twice in the past two days. He wouldn't be making another mistake.
