by J C Paulson
Ten minutes later, Adam crouched over the little body, or what was left of it, in the gathering darkness.
“What do you think, Jack?” he asked McDougall.
“It appears she was strangled, Adam. Of course, I won’t know for sure until I do the full autopsy, but see here? Obvious. Windpipe crushed. And it will probably be impossible to say whether she was drowned.”
“Right. Okay, let’s get her out of here. Thanks, Jack.”
Walking away, his phone buzzed. He wondered if it would be Grace, and almost picked up the call; but it wasn’t. It was her, again. The second time in the past week. Hell. He let it go to voicemail, then listened to the message in the car.
“Hey, gorgeous,” she said. “Jilly again. Give me a call. I miss you. I need to talk to you.”
Jilly. That was all he needed right now. The nightmares, this case, missing Grace. Oh, God, what the hell was he going to do about Grace?
*****
Grace wandered alone, desperate and miserable around her tiny home. What the hell had happened? Before the planned trip to California, and the abbreviated time in Vancouver, there had been a few difficult nights, but the last one was different. She had to admit it had frightened her a bit; but it had terrified Adam.
Reality was now facing her, and biting her hard enough to draw blood. How did she, how could she fit into Adam’s world? A terrible world, punctuated by his post-traumatic stress, and his nightmares. And now, he had driven her away; asked her to leave. She couldn’t stand it.
Grace stretched in pain, tears blurring her vision and dripping down her cheeks; her lover had left her, holding her life in his hands.
She poured a glass of white wine she really needed, returned to her bedroom, and looked at the champagne negligée she didn’t have the chance to wear in Vancouver. She had hung it on the closet door to let the wrinkles fall out. Remembering the day she had packed the silky thing, she doubled over with a sudden, sharp physical craving, spilling some of the wine.
I’m not going to make it, she thought. I want him, want him now. Now. Oh, God, now.
Grace sank to the floor, gulped some of the remaining wine in her glass, and tried to figure out what to do. Try to sleep? Read a book?
No. I can’t.
Unable to help herself, despite his rejection of her, Grace reached over to the bedside table, plucked the phone off its stand, and dialled Adam’s number. She wondered if he’d be home, or at least on his line.
What was she going to say? She nearly hung up.
A big voice answered.
“Grace. Are you all right?” it asked, anxiously.
“No. Adam, can you come to me? Adam, I’m . . . I miss you.”
I’m dying for you to touch me. To be with me. Grace barely managed to hold the thought back. She couldn’t say it, knew she couldn’t go that far, couldn’t stand a further rejection at his hands.
Grace couldn’t see Adam close his eyes, open them and look heavenward.
“Don’t move. I’m coming now.” That was all he said, and hung up.
Ten minutes later, Adam was hammering on the door. Grace opened it, clad only in champagne silk and lace, and backed up into the kitchen, eyes wide.
“I’m sorry if . . . I know, you asked me to leave, but I . . . ”
“Sh,” said Adam, advancing, his eyes roving over Grace quivering in a slippery wisp of a garment.
Her nipples were red, erect, poking through the lace of the bodice. Adam, stunned, was instantly beside himself. He cupped her breasts with his hands, rasped the lace against her nipples with his thumbs and opened her lips with his, plunging his tongue into her mouth.
He finally released her, tried to catch his breath.
“Desire is getting the better of me, Grace,” he said, staring into her eyes. “Do you hear me?”
Grace heard. Holding his gaze, she nodded.
“Do you want me to back off? Go home? I don’t know if I can . . . but Grace, I’m not safe for you to be with. I’m not safe.”
“No, Adam,” she gasped, squirming in his powerful arms. “Stay with me. I want you.”
A flicker of fear pierced Grace’s fog of desire: she had never seen Adam like this, maddened, his blue irises gone completely black. Was it not just the PTSD? Was there a wilder animal inside him? Would he strip her of all composure?
No. She couldn’t believe he would ever intentionally hurt her. It just wasn’t possible. Adam was ferocious, passionate, broken; but he was also a good, decent and beautiful man. She was as certain of that as she had ever been of anything.
“I will never take your dignity, Grace,” said Adam, more softly, as if he read her mind. He had certainly read her eyes. “I will not ever knowingly hurt you. I do want to take you all night. If you say yes.”
He slipped his hand under the silk to the silkier place between her legs. “I need to hear it, Grace. Only if you agree. Say it. Say it.”
“Yes, Adam,” whispered Grace.
He swept her up against him by the buttocks and curved her legs around his hips, kissing her hard and striding purposefully down the hallway to her bedroom, erection pushing against her.
“Grace,” he said, stopping abruptly. “God, I’m so sorry about last night, this morning. I . . . can’t believe I pushed you away. You have to decide if you can bear my passion for you. I’ve never wanted anything so much. But the price may be too high to pay. The job. The nightmares. I need to know what you’re really thinking. About me. Us.
“Tell me, Grace, what you were going to say on the phone. You said, I miss you. But what were you going to say? I’m . . . what?”
He was still holding her against him, staring into her eyes. It was impossible for Grace to move or look away without struggling, without breaking the powerful embrace. I have to tell him, she thought. He wanted to, had to know.
“I was going to say I’m . . . I’m dying for you to touch me,” admitted Grace, hoarsely, staring back.
Adam’s body trembled as if a wind gust had blown through him.
“Oh, my God,” he said, as if to himself. “And now? Now, Grace?”
“I’m going to come apart if you don’t make love to me.”
“I’ve already come apart.”
Adam lowered Grace onto the bed and removed the silk gown. Leaving her naked and shivering a little, he watched her intensely as he stripped himself quickly, throwing his shirt and jeans to the floor.
He bent over and took Grace in his arms, sliding her up the bed until her head was on the pillow, hair wildly flowing around her, and entered her deeply. Grace screamed at the first thrust, so aroused was she by his passion; so open to him she could hardly bear the sensation.
He held her down at the hips, keeping her from stroking up against him, and went in again and again, in long, shuddering, slow motions that filled her body and stopped her thoughts. As Grace started to reach climax, he paused for a moment, breathing hard, before beginning again.
Grace writhed under him, so close she almost begged him not to stop. Then remembered her vow to stop the deflections, the silly efforts at humour. Say it. Tell him.
“Adam, please, I’m . . . please keep going . . .” she still couldn’t quite get it out.
“You’re what, Grace?” he muttered.
“I . . . I want to . . . with you . . .”
“Tell me, Grace. Tell me.”
“Come with me, Adam . . . ” I’m almost incoherent, she thought.
“We are coming together, Grace, now, tonight,” Adam said, in a mixture of need and command.
He stopped thrusting and buried himself in her, brought his hand under the small of her back and lifted her pelvis. At the contact, she began to climax immediately. Released, she began to move her hips, grinding against Adam, panting and digging her nails into his back. His orgasm joined hers then, his hips pressing into her.
“Grace! You make me crazy with wanting you. God help me, I couldn’t stay away.”
Adam collapsed onto Gra
ce, then lifted his face and kissed her softly, as if to make up for the ferocity. He spoke again, big voice adamant but gentle.
“I want you to be mine, Grace. In bed and out of bed. Here, at home. Not just in California or Vancouver or wherever the hell. But I don’t know how. How will you be safe in my arms?”
So, that insane lovemaking wasn’t the end of it, then. He was still expressing himself forcefully, still inside her.
“Do you have any doubt? Tell me, Grace. What do you want? I want this. You. Help me.”
“Yes, Adam,” she said. “I want this. You. I wept when you drove away from today, standing on the sidewalk. Taking bits of me with you. I will risk it, Adam. If I will, so must you.”
Adam held Grace tightly against himself.
“I can’t promise the dreams will end.”
“I know, Adam.”
“How can we sleep together, Grace?”
“Adam. That’s enough; please stop this, this beating yourself up. You pushed me, once — while you were asleep. You haven’t tried to cut me, shoot me, throw things at me, strangle me or even yell at me. We’ll get help. We can do this, Adam. Do you remember asking me not to leave, after the nightmare?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not leaving. What happened, Adam? Can you tell me? Can we exorcise the dream?”
Haltingly, he told her, and Grace began to cry.
“Oh no, Adam,” she said, turning her head to kiss his face again and again. “It was a hard day. So many things we talked about. I see how your brain knitted those together into a nightmare. For my part in it, I’m sorry, Adam.”
“No, Grace. Not your fault. We have to be able to talk to each other. I feel like a piece of glass, sometimes; the tiniest chip makes me shatter. But I will not shatter you.”
Grace paused.
“We come to each other, Adam,” said Grace, slowly, “with our bits of baggage clenched in our hands, and we pry them open to say look, here I am. These are the things which have made us who we are; we’re not perfect, but we are strong. You won’t shatter, and I won’t run from a nightmare.”
Adam wondered if he was hearing her, interpreting her, correctly. He propped his head on his hand, and looked into Grace’s eyes, the reflective, dark pools that intrigued him so.
Adam drew her into himself again, and hoped she was right. That he was safe for Grace. He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t.
And Grace was damned if she was going to let him go without a fight, fucking dreams or no fucking dreams.
Chapter Twenty-one
The morning came much too soon for Adam, who wrenched his body out of Grace’s bed at six, threw on his clothes and kissed her desperately.
“I can hardly stand to leave,” he said, softly. “See you tonight?”
“Oh, Adam,” said Grace, stretching as she came fully awake. “I’m going to miss you today. Yes, see you tonight. Come for dinner.”
“Babe. I’d love to. Are you sure?”
“Yes. Please, Adam,” added Grace, remembering she had flung herself off the cliff of restraint, begged him to come to her. “I can pick up groceries on the way home.”
Adam’s upper lip curled. How domestic.
“I can’t wait. Is seven okay?”
“Perfect. Adam . . . ”
“Grace?”
“I want you.”
“Even after last night?” Adam coloured a little. “Grace, oh, God . . . I was out of control. I was desperate to hear you, feel you . . . . and your lips. Your lips. Oh no. They’re succulent, but swollen again.”
“I wear my badge of carnality with pride.”
That sounded more like her. But he had heard what he had wanted to hear, needed to hear. I’m dying for you to touch me. I’m going to come apart. I will risk it, Adam. And so would he, because he could not help himself.
Adam, in an agony stirred by passion, got in his car and drove home for a shower and to dress for work. He wrenched his mind away from Grace, and tried to focus on the case.
We’re going to find this bastard, he told himself. We’re going to find him.
*****
“Hey, partner,” said Adam, leaning over the partition of James’s carrel.
“Hey, Adam, “said James. “You look different,” he added, cocking his head judiciously, one eyebrow raised.
“Do I?” asked Adam. “How?”
“Fucking happy,” said James, who knew what that looked like. Adam had the grace to colour, a little. “And you need a haircut. Where do you want to start?”
Adam silently thanked James for not going too far with his observations, but also appreciated the comment. Somehow, it was validating.
“Let’s move. Set up a meeting for nine with Charlotte, Joan and Lorne, in the case room.”
“I have just the thing. Wait’ll you see, Sarge,” said James, obviously pleased with himself about something.
“Look forward to it. See you in a couple of hours.”
Adam spent the next hour answering emails and, at eight, looked up the new number for Inspector Jeannette Villeneuve, now of the Winnipeg Police Service. He had been meaning to call her for a week, but there had either been no time, or there had been Grace.
“Winnipeg Police. Inspector Villeneuve’s office, Constable Sophie Harwood speaking. How can I help you?”
“Constable Harwood. Good morning. Detective Sergeant Adam Davis, Saskatoon Police. I was hoping to speak to the Inspector. Is she in?”
“Yes, sir, Sergeant,” said the constable. “Let me see if she’s free. Can you hold for a moment?”
“Absolutely.”
Villeneuve had been in London when Adam and his team were chasing bishop killer Ellice Fairbrother around the country a few months ago. A priest had been murdered at St. Peter’s Seminary, and Adam had been convinced Fairbrother was his killer, too. Villeneuve had been a big help on the case.
“Hello, Sergeant,” said a beautiful, Québécoise voice a moment later. “Bonjour. So lovely to hear from you. How are you? Are you calling to solve another case for me?”
Adam laughed.
“No, Inspector. This is a social call. I wanted to congratulate you on your new position, and promotion. Are you enjoying Winnipeg?”
“I am, so far. This coming winter, however, I may not feel the same way.”
“Stay away from Portage and Main, and you may survive,” said Adam. “What made you decide to take the job?”
“Well, largely the promotion, of course. It has been quite a learning curve, becoming inspector. But Winnipeg has its lovely aspects: excellent music scene, museums and galleries, and proximity to the lakes. It was not too hard to move here.”
“Glad to hear it. I’ve been away for nearly two weeks at those police conferences in L.A., or I would have called sooner. Anything interesting going on?”
“The usual, unfortunately. Too much gang activity, too many drugs, too many missing or murdered women.” She sighed. “We had another one a week ago. Murdered.”
“So did we,” said Adam. “That case is my primary focus right now. What happened in your case?”
“This poor girl was found down on the bank of the Assiniboine by a . . . well, not a homeless man, but a gentleman down on his luck. She was a pretty little thing. Heartbreaking.”
Pretty little thing. Poor girl. On the bank. Water. Adam’s body froze. It couldn’t be. God, no.
“Jeannette,” said Adam, in a low, warning tone.
“Adam. What?”
“What does she look like? Exactly, if you don’t mind. Height, weight, eye colour, hair, the works.”
“Adam, what are you saying? Wait. I’ll send you the file.”
A moment. Adam’s eyes were riveted on his email. It pinged.
Adam opened the file and clicked on the photo. His stomach tightened.
“Do you have it, Adam?” asked Jeannette.
“Yes.” He swallowed. “Give me a minute, Jeannette.”
He pulled up the woman’s file. Sinclair
, Della: age twenty-one, one hundred fifteen pounds, five foot two, black hair, brown eyes . . . Adam stopped reading.
“Did she have long hair?” asked Adam. “As she does in the picture?”
“She did. She looked very much like she does in the photo.”
“How did she die?”
“She was strangled and then dropped into the river. We’re not sure where. She came ashore near The Forks,” said Jeannette, referring to the shopping area at the confluence of Winnipeg’s two rivers. “Adam, what is going on?”
“We have, I believe, at least four women here who have been attacked, killed or spirited away by the same man. At least two of those women were also raped. They all look so much alike, they could be sisters. As could this young woman. Ms. Sinclair.”
Adam couldn’t see Jeannette Villeneuve, but he could almost hear the blood drain from her face. She made a small, awful noise.
“Mon dieu, Adam. Could it be coincidence?”
It could be, but it wasn’t. Adam knew it with terrible certainty. He felt himself shake his head, with an out-of-body sense of watching his own actions from far away.
“No, Jeannette,” he said. “The woman we know was raped and murdered was originally from Winnipeg. Her name is Sherry Hilliard.” His fingers were flying over his keyboard. “I’m sending you the file now. Tell me what you think when you see her.”
Another moment. Adam could hear Jeannette clicking the keys on her computer, and gasp.
“Goddamn it to hell. Just a minute, Adam.” He heard her calling to Sophie Harwood. “They look so much alike, it is quite incredible, Adam. And they are identical in size. I’ll ask Sophie to cross-reference the two. Can I call you back?”
“Of course. I have a meeting at nine — ten your time. I expect it to take an hour. Call me on my cell — do you still have the number, Jeannette?”
“Oui, I do.”
“I’ll pick up if I’m in the meeting when you call. Do you have a new cell number?”
She gave it to him.
“I feel . . . ill, Adam,” said Jeannette.
“I do too, Jeannette.”
*****
