by J. R. Ward
The knocking on her door was probably the FedEx man delivering the supply of pencils she'd ordered last week.
Wiping her cheeks on a just-in-case, she took out her scrunchie and re-pulled her hair back as she went for the door.
Not FedEx, although the box had been left on her front stoop.
Teresa was dressed in a pale blue business suit that did absolutely nothing for her coloring, and she was pissed, hands on her hips, glare on her face. "You never call, you never write. You suck. Now let me in--I have forty-five minutes before I have to be back to the office, and you're going to tell me everything."
Her oldest and dearest pushed past her, marching into the kitchen and sitting down next to all the artwork.
"So." Teresa crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her high-heeled shoe. "What's happening--"
Cait burst into tears.
"Oh, shit." Teresa jumped up and went in for the hug. "I'm such an ass. Are you okay? What's wrong? If he hurt you, I'll screw his reputation twelve ways to Sunday on the Internet. And key his car. And do some other stuff that you won't want to know about beforehand, but will certainly read of in the CCJ."
Cait held on tight. It was a while before she could say anything intelligent--but that was the thing with true friends.
They didn't necessarily need to hear the details of where you were ... to be there for you.
Another one?
As Duke walked into the Shed and heard his name get called out, he eyed the guy standing by the muni truck he himself had been assigned to for the shift. Man, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had two subs in three days working with him. Maybe they'd fired the first? Turned out that one had had a bad limp, and though the city of Caldwell didn't discriminate, it was hard to be a laborer if you couldn't even stand up for any period of time.
"So are you Duke Phillips?" the man asked.
"Yeah. You with me for the day?" he muttered as he walked over with the keys.
"Yup."
"Well, I drive." Duke unlocked the doors and got in. "And set the route."
"No problem."
"We're going to be ripping out a hedgerow," Duke said, as they shut their doors and he started the engine. "After that, we've got inventory to do."
"What's that?"
Duke drove them out of the garage and into the sunlight. He'd come in at eleven, and was grateful for the extra hour of work. With any luck, he'd be back to full-time in another week or ten days.
"We drive through parks and cemeteries and make up a work list for the spring cleanup. If the projects are approved, we get more hours."
"Can I smoke in here?"
"Doesn't bother me." At least he wouldn't get a contact high, like he did at home with Rolly's pot. "Crack a window, though, so I don't have to hear about it."
As Duke's phone went off, he took the thing out. Checked the screen. Closed his eyes for a split second and then bumped the call.
It was Nicole. Wanting to talk about the kid, no doubt.
Man, the last thing he wanted to hear was that there was more trouble at school. That Nicole was taking a second go at having Duke talk to him. That that quicksand of madness was trying to suck him in again.
He set the terms between the three of them. No one else.
Besides, he had enough on his plate.
"Bad call?" the guy beside him asked.
Duke let the question slide. He was not interested in getting familiar with the fathead in the passenger seat--and he was certainly not going to let the stranger into his biz. Hell, he didn't allow that with people he knew.
Fortunately, there was no more talking as he took them into town, the rural miles and then the suburban blocks getting eaten up fast.
"So, I know you," the guy said as they hit some traffic going into the thick of downtown.
Duke glanced across the seat. Nope, he didn't recognize his one-shift partner. But that didn't mean the man hadn't been in line at the Iron Mask or something--although that hardly counted as "knowing."
"No, you don't."
"Yeah, I do." The man flicked the tip off his Marlboro out of the window crack and put the dead butt in his jacket pocket. "I know that you're going to face a crossroads soon, and you're going to have to make a choice. I'm here to help you do the right thing."
What the fuck?
Duke hit the brakes to stop at a red light, and turned to face Mr. Chatty. Time to set the ground rules before this became the longest workday of his life. "You and I have six hours where we are required to be ... together ... in ... this..."
Duke let the screw-you wind down into silence as he met the man's eyes. Strange eyes. Strange color.
Just like the other "worker" he'd been paired with.
Abruptly, a cotton-wool feeling came over him--talk about your contact highs. It was a little like what he'd felt when he was around his star boarder for too long while Rolly was toking up--but it was so much more than that.
"Here's what we're going to do," the man said. "In another block and a half, you're going to turn right and take us down to the river. We're going to parallel-park and take a walk in the park so the GPS on this truck reports that we've done our job. But we're not going to be digging out any bushes. You're going to tell me where you're at--we're almost out of time and I need to be up to speed quick."
Duke blinked. And then his phone started ringing again.
He took it out slowly. As he saw who was calling, he looked back at the man. With a feeling of total unreality, he heard himself say, "Do you know ... a woman with brunette hair?"
As that psychic crackpot from Trade Street went into Duke's voice mail, it was somehow not a surprise that the man beside him nodded slowly.
"Yeah, I do. And we need to keep you away from her."
Somewhere deep in his marrow, Duke knew that this was what he'd been waiting his whole adult life for. He'd always had some sense that things were not normal for him, no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise--and that was the reason he'd gone to that psychic for all those years.
It was also the "why" behind his nightmares, the ones he told nobody about.
Duke's phone let out a beep, notifying him that a new message had been left for him.
Through the fog that had settled into his brain, he watched his thumb move over the smooth screen, calling the voice mail up ... and then he put the cell up to his ear.
"Duke, this is Yasemin Oaks--you must come see me. At the very least, I need to speak with you urgently. The dreams are getting more intense--you are in danger--please, Duke, I'm warning you. Blood is going to flow and--"
"The light's green," the man next to him announced. "Hit the gas and take us down to the river. It's time, Duke. We've got shit to take care of."
For some strange reason, Duke thought of Cait. Beautiful Cait.
"I don't know you," he said roughly.
"You don't have to. But you need to trust me."
Snap out of it, he told himself. This is all bullcrap.
"Not going to happen," he heard himself say.
Abruptly, he put his phone away. Pushed his foot down on the accelerator. And was ready to go anywhere except over to the water--just to establish who was in charge.
After a moment, he glanced over at the other man. The son of a bitch was sitting in the passenger seat, jaw set like he knew exactly how this was going to play out.
Duke cursed under his breath. Yeah, no way he was telling this guy anything ... and yet he couldn't ignore the sense of foreboding that was dogging him. Besides, he'd wanted to end this shit for so long, even as he was knee-deep in it right now. The trouble was, old habits, like bitter resentments, died hard.
"You don't have much of a choice," the man said. "You need me if you want to come out of this in one piece."
One piece? Duke thought. Hah. I'm already broken.
"You're going to tell me everything, Duke. You have to."
Chapter
Forty
As Cait parallel-park
ed on Trade Street, no more than a block away from the Palace Theatre, she frowned and leaned into the windshield. It wasn't because she was lost this time, though. As opposed to when she'd been trying to find the hair salon a couple of nights ago, she had no confusion as to the theater's location.
The issue was the police.
There were six or seven Caldwell Police Department vehicles parked in front of the Palace, and about half a dozen uniformed officers milling around outside the main entrance.
Getting out into the sunshine, she pulled her light coat in tighter and slung her bag over her shoulder. She had to wait for a stream of traffic to go by, but eventually there was a break in the cars and she jaywalked across.
Probably not the smartest thing to do in front of a cop convention, but it sure seemed like the unis had bigger fish to fry than her.
As she approached the knot of officers, several of them turned to her.
"Hi," she said, blinking in the glare of their badges. "I'm here to meet a friend for lunch?"
The tallest one, an African-American guy with a voice that suggested you really did not mess with him, spoke up. "Who would that be?"
"G. B. Holde? He's a singer--he's here rehearsing for Rent?"
"You're meeting him for what?"
Abruptly, they were all focused on her, measuring her, no doubt taking mental pictures and notes. "Lunch? We were going to have a sandwich together?"
"Is this a regular thing?"
"Um, no. We made the date--er, you know, the time--last night?"
"Do you know him well?"
"Why are you here? What's happened?"
"What's your name, ma'am?"
"Cait. Caitlyn Douglass?" Maybe they were violating her rights, she didn't know. But she had nothing to hide. "Is he okay?"
"We can't let you inside, ma'am, I'm sorry. This is a crime scene."
Cait felt the blood leave her face. "Who died?"
"A young female."
Which meant G.B. was okay--and yet the intel was not any kind of relief. "Oh ... God." Was it a case of Sissy all over again? Or ... "I was chased in the parking lot the other night. You don't suppose this had anything to do with--"
"When was that, ma'am?"
Even more police officers clustered around her as she told them all what had happened to her. And then an exhausted man in a loose suit came out of the theater's glass doors.
"Detective?" someone called out. "We got a female over here."
A man with dark hair and a way-too-early-in-the-day five o'clock shadow walked across the mosaic stretch and put his hand out. "Detective de la Cruz. How you doing?"
Shaking his hand, she instantly felt comfortable with him. "Hi."
"You've got quite a crowd here." He nodded at his colleagues. "They're nosy--and paid to be that way. Me, too. So you mind telling me what's going on with you?"
In quick, clear terms, she explained everything that had happened to her the other night, and as she talked, he scribbled in a little spiral notebook.
"Well, I'm sorry you were chased like that." He put his notebook away. "Any follow-up on the perpetrator?"
"No. I haven't called, and no one's been in touch."
"I'll check back at the station and let you know one way or the other. As for your lunch, I'm sorry, but we can't let you in. Everybody who's working in the theater is being questioned by my team. As for this ..." He took the notepad out again and flipped the cover open. "This G.B. guy? Is that the man you were going to meet?"
"Yes."
"Yeah, he's going to be busy for a while."
She frowned. "Detective, can you tell me anything about what's going on?"
"I'm sorry, I can't. But you'll hear about it tonight on the news," he said dryly as a van with a satellite dish on its roof pulled up across the street. "However, if you want me to get a message to G.B., I'd be happy to carry it in."
"I just want him to know I came ... and that I hope he's okay."
Which was stupid. Someone had died. Nothing was okay.
After she got back to her car, she started her engine and pulled out of her spot. She didn't have any idea where she was going, although she did text G.B. at a stoplight, just in case the detective got busy or forgot.
With any luck, he would volunteer an update.
Hitting another stoplight, she made a random turn. And another. And even more, until she realized she was literally going nowhere. Pulling over, she found herself in Caldwell's financial district, the thicket of skyscrapers blocking out the light, the pedestrians all in gray and black like shadows of real people.
She really needed to just go home, she thought--even as she put the car in park and sat back in her seat.
Man, one thing that sucked as you got older was that you had so many more associations with things. A couple of years ago, she might have gone to that theater, heard that someone she didn't know had been killed, and probably only had a moment's pause. Now? After Sissy Barten's brutal murder, she was stuck in a domino effect that took her right back to that hospital, when her brother had been taken off the ventilator.
He should have been wearing a helmet. Goddamn him, he knew he wasn't supposed to skateboard without a helmet.
But teenagers were clueless enough to believe their skulls were stronger than concrete.
That had been the transformative part for her, she realized. If he'd only been properly prepared, he would have been okay--he would have survived the impact.
That had been the basis of the fixation on order for her: the idea that if you just made sure you were always neat and prepared, you'd be safe. If you put on a helmet, you would never be injured. If you always wore your seat belt, and got regular checkups, and flossed and brushed, and never, ever took a step without first considering what kind of padding and safety equipment you needed...
She thought of Thom: If you stuck with nice guys who you weren't really passionate about, you wouldn't have to worry about getting your heart broken.
"Yeah, right," she muttered to herself. That had happened anyway. And curiously ... it had been okay. It was okay.
And didn't that make her think about the differences between G.B. and Duke.
She had known that she was going to have to make a choice at some point. She had not expected to have that decision come to her here and now, as she sat in her car at the side of the road, swarms of business types walking by, taxis shooting up and down the street, distant sirens suggesting that crises were all around.
She had tried the safe option once before and the outcome had been what it was--and in fact, crash helmets only helped in certain kinds of accidents ... and even neat freaks who relied on order to protect themselves got chased in garages and scared shitless.
Hell, for all she knew, whatever woman had been killed at the theater had had a color-coded closet, too.
There was no protection from injury, disillusionment, disappointment.
God, what a depressing thought. And yet it was liberating, too.
She knew who she wanted.
At least ... she thought she did.
The knock on her window made her shout in alarm.
"Ma'am?" It was a meter maid, her voice buffered by the closed windows. "I'm going to have to ticket you if you don't get moving."
"Sorry," Cait said, trying to remember where the gearshift was. "I'll leave right now. Thanks."
Getting back into the flow of traffic, she felt a strange dread come over her, as if her destiny was somehow threatened. But ... that was just crazy.
Wasn't it?
At the next stoplight, she dragged her bag over and searched through it ... and as she found what she was looking for, she couldn't believe she was thinking about calling that psychic, the one whose business card she'd taken from the corkboard at the theater.
Focusing on the address, she mentally mapped out a route. She'd never been to anyone like that before, and had no idea what to expect--or what she could possibly get out of it.
The only thing sh
e was sure of was that a kind of ... crossroads ... seemed to have appeared before her, and she wanted some sort of confirmation that the direction she intended to go in was the correct one.
Couldn't hurt, right.
Hitting the gas, she got lost in images of the two men, anxiety sharpening the pictures to an almost painful degree...
When Cait's car stopped again, she was barely aware of having hit the brakes. And ... wait a minute, this was not the grungier end of Trade Street. In fact, it was...
Where the hell was she?
Too much grass to be downtown.
She was about to pull a U-ey when she saw the stray dog. Small, low to the ground, and scruffy as a floor mop, it was seated on the broad stretch of lawn and staring right at her.
Cait got out. "You okay there, boy?"
Somehow she knew it was a boy. No collar, though. Poor thing.
As it lifted its forepaw, she was compelled to go around the front of her car--and that was when the place she'd arrived at came into her consciousness.
Not the psychic's, no. Try church and steeple.
It was St. Patrick's Cathedral, the grande dame of all Christian houses of worship in Caldwell, the one with the Gothic spires, and all the saints, and the stained glass that looked like jewels.
Where Sissy Barten's funeral was going to occur.
How had she ended up here?
She turned back to see the dog, but he was gone. "Where are you?"
Cait looked all around, pivoting in a circle--he'd disappeared, though.
Following a long moment, and for no good reason she could think of, her feet decided to take the term walkway to heart, pulling a one-after-another that brought her up to a side entrance. As she reached out to open the door, and found the heavy weight obliging, she labeled the impulse that carried her over the threshold under "preparation for Sissy's event."
There was no other purpose for her to come here. In fact, she hadn't been in a church since she'd moved to Caldwell--unless she'd gone home and been dragged to services. And she certainly wasn't Catholic, all that regal tradition antithetical to the pine-floored, white-washed, garden-flowers-on-the-altar simplicity she was used to, and had revolted against.
Inside, she had to close her eyes and take a deep breath. Oh, wow, did that smell good--incense and old wood and beeswax.
She was in a side vestibule, as it turned out, and as she walked across the polished stone floor, her footsteps echoed forward into the vast expanse of the nave. Stone block walls rose to seemingly incalculable heights, the buttresses flying like the wings of angels at every juncture, depictions of holy men and women marking the corners and the straightaways, different chapels running down the longest length from the incredible entrance to the beautiful altar.
