by Lisa Jackson
He knew from his own experience that rational thought didn’t play much of a role when lust or love was involved. Unfortunately most people, himself included, had a way of mixing up the two emotions.
And that usually spelled disaster.
Samantha Leeds’s love life was a prime example.
Chapter Twenty
Sam tossed her copy of Paradise Lost to one side of her desk. She’d spent the past two hours in the den and had managed to skim most of the text, but decided that she’d been wrong. Her belief that “John,” whoever he was, had made reference to the work hadn’t panned out. At least she couldn’t find any link. A headache was beginning to form behind her eyes as she snapped on the desk lamp. Outside, evening was stretching across the lake and her yard, shadows deepening, the twinkle of the first star visible.
So who was John? She picked up a pen and twirled it between two fingers. What did he want? To scare her? Was it all just a game to him? Or was it something deeper, did he actually mean her bodily harm? She was reaching for a text on the psychology of stalkers when the phone rang so loudly she jumped.
She caught the receiver on the second ring. “Hello?” she said, but didn’t expect an answer. Twice earlier she’d answered, and no one had responded. She’d been jumpy ever since, especially since today was Thursday, Annie Seger’s birthday.
“Hi, Sam,” a cheery voice called.
“Corky!” It was so good to hear her friend’s voice. Leaning back in her chair, Samantha smiled as she stared out the window and watched a squirrel leap from one thick branch of an oak tree to another. “What’s up?”
“I thought I’d check in on you. My mom called yesterday from LA. She’d run into your dad at the country club and he said you’d been having some trouble, that you’d hurt your leg in Mexico and now there was some kind of creep stalking you or something.”
“Good news travels fast.”
“Like the speed of lightning when my mom hears it. What’s going on?”
Sam sighed, imagining her friend’s face and wishing Corky lived closer. “It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got some time to kill, so talk.”
“Remember, you asked.” Sam brought Corky up to date, telling her about John, Annie, the phone calls, the mutilated picture.
“Mother of God, Sam, and the girl’s birthday is today?” Corky asked, and Sam imagined the concern in her friend’s eyes.
“She would have been twenty-five.”
“Maybe you should hire a bodyguard.”
“It’s been suggested,” Sam said dryly. “As well as upgrading my cat for a pit bull.”
“How about moving in with David?” Sam sighed through her nose and glanced at the framed photograph of David still sitting on her desk near the answering machine. Handsome, yes. Husband material—no. “Even if David lived in New Orleans, it wouldn’t happen.” To prove her point to herself, she grabbed the damned picture of David from the surface of her desk and shoved it into the bottom drawer of the desk. “It’s over.”
“But you went to Mexico with him.”
“I met him there and it turned out to be a nightmare. After everything, I’ll be lucky if David and I end up friends. The odd thing about it is that police even think he might have something to do with the calls I’ve been getting.”
“David Ross?” Corky laughed. “No way. Obviously they don’t know the guy.”
“And he’s in Houston.”
“Okay, so not David. How about someone else? Come on, Sam. Don’t you have some big, strong friend who could move in for a while?”
Ty Wheeler’s image came quickly to mind. “No. Besides, I don’t need a man to—”
“What about Pete?”
Sam glanced at the photograph of her graduation, her parents and her brother. “You’re kidding, right? No one’s seen Pete in years.”
“I have. I ran into him the other day.”
“What?” She couldn’t believe her ears. “You’re talking about my brother?”
“Yes.”
“But…but…” A dozen emotions ripped through her and tears sprang to her eyes. Until that moment she didn’t realize that she’d thought it a very real possibility that he’d been dead. “I’m sorry, Corky, but this is huge. He doesn’t even bother to call on Christmas or Dad’s birthday…is he okay?”
“Looked fit as the proverbial fiddle.”
“So why hasn’t he called, where has he been, what’s he doing?”
“Hey, whoa. Slow down. One question at a time,” Corky said, and Sam forced herself to rein in her galloping emotions.
“Okay, you’re right,” she said. “Let’s start over. Where did you see Pete?”
“Here in Atlanta at a bar. Last weekend. I couldn’t believe it.”
Me, neither. Sam’s chest tightened. “How was he?”
“Good, he looked good. But then he always looked good. Even when he was using.” There was a pause, and Sam picked up the snapshot of her family. Peter, taller than the rest of the family, seeming aloof and disinterested in his black leather and dark glasses. You insensitive bastard, she thought unkindly. How many times had her father called and asked about him. A hundred? Two?
“He seemed to have cleaned up his act,” Corky offered. “But he didn’t leave me with a number or even tell me how to reach him. I told him he should call you, and he said he’d think of it.”
“Kind of him,” Sam said.
“Hey…give him a break. I don’t think his life has been all that wonderful.”
“You always had a crush on him,” Sam accused. “Yeah, I did. Past tense. But who wouldn’t? He’s still drop-dead gorgeous.”
“If you say so.”
“I do, but okay, I’ll admit it. I’m an incurable romantic.”
“And always getting yourself into trouble.”
Corky laughed. “Yeah, I suppose. Especially with good-looking men.” She sighed loudly. “If it wasn’t long-distance, I’d be calling in to your show all the time, begging you for advice with my love life.”
“Sure you would,” Sam said, but laughed. God, she missed Corky. And in some ways, she missed her brother.
“Unlike you, I haven’t given up on love.”
“Unlike me you’re not a realist,” Sam countered, as Charon hopped up on her lap and began to purr.
“Pete asked about you, Sam.”
“Did he?” A dozen emotions rifled through her, none of them particularly good. Samantha still had issues with her brother. Big ones. “What about Dad? Did Pete ask about him? You know, Dad hasn’t heard from him in years.”
“Well, no, he didn’t bring up your father.”
“It figures.” Sam felt a stab of disappointment which was totally uncalled-for. Why in the world was she ever-hopeful that her brother would develop some conscience about family ties? “So what’s Pete doing?” Sam asked. “To support himself, I mean.”
“I’m not sure. He said something about working for a cell-phone company, putting up towers all around the Southeast, but I had the feeling that the job was over. He was living here, in Atlanta, but acted as if he was going to be moving…Uh-oh, I’ve got another call coming in, I’ve got to take it as I do work on commission, you know, but I wanted to tell you that I’m going to be in New Orleans in a couple of weeks. I’ll call with the details as they come in. Gotta go.”
“Bye—” Before the word was out, Corky had clicked off and Sam was left with a dead line. Staring at the picture of her small family, she hung up and tried to shake off the shroud of depression that always clung to her when she thought about her brother. Or her mother.
Deep down, though she knew it was time to let go of the old feelings, Sam still blamed Peter for taking her mother away. Picking up the snapshot, she traced the contours of her mother’s face with the tip of her finger and felt the old sadness well up as it always did when she thought of her mother. It hadn’t been long after the picture had been taken that Beth Matheson had been killed senselessly, in an auto
mobile accident that could have been avoided.
“Oh, Mom,” Sam swallowed hard. It had been so long ago on that rainy night in LA when, frantic to find her son, Beth had climbed into her sedan and driven off. Not two miles down the road, she’d hydroplaned, hadn’t been able to stop for a red light and been killed instantly by another driver turning in the intersection.
All because of Pete’s love affair with cocaine.
Addiction, Sam reminded herself, trying to diffuse some of the rage that sometimes overcame her when she thought of her mother’s premature death. Peter was an addict. It was a disease. Beth Matheson had been careless and had not only died herself that night, but the driver of the van that had hit her was in the hospital for six weeks.
Water under the bridge.
Sam replaced the photograph. She should call Corky back and try to track down Pete. For her father. For you, too, Sam. He’s your only brother. You have to get over faulting him.
But he never calls Dad. Nor me. Acts as if his family doesn’t exist.
Rather than dwell on a brother who didn’t care if she thought he might be dead, Sam reached for the phone again. From memory, she dialed David’s work number and was informed that he was “out for a few days.”
Wonderful. It wasn’t that she wanted to talk to him, she just wanted to assure herself that he wasn’t involved in any of the calls to the station or the calls here at the house. Not David, she told herself. The first call came in when you were in Mexico. He was there.
It’s not David. The police are barking up the wrong tree.
Still, she dialed his home number, waited until the answering machine clicked on and hung up. So he wasn’t in Houston. So what?
She couldn’t sit around and wonder what he was doing. He was out of her life, and she didn’t have to remind herself that she wanted it that way. Things were better without. She’d never really loved him, but when she’d first met him, he’d seemed the right choice for a husband and father of the children she’d wanted.
Thank God she’d woken up before she’d given up on love and married him because of his suitability. “You’re as bad as Corky,” she muttered at herself. She turned to her computer and accessed her e-mail. Most of it didn’t interest her, but she saw another electronic missive from the Boucher Center and found a note from Leanne.
DS—
Things aren’t going great here. Mom’s mad all the time and Jay won’t call me back. I think I need to talk to you about something. When you have the time, call or e-mail me.
“Oh, honey.” Sam fired off a quick note, suggesting they meet for coffee, then tried Leanne’s home number. It rang busy, so she couldn’t leave a message. Leanne had e-mailed her before with similar missives, but Sam had the feeling the girl was in some kind of trouble. Maybe she’d call into the show tonight.
Just like Annie Seger did?
“Stop it,” she muttered out loud. She was just anxious because it was Annie’s birthday, and she’d gotten the threatening calls and notes. It had nothing to do with Leanne’s plight.
Telling herself she’d call Leanne later, Sam nudged Charon off her lap and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Inside her closet, she parted her long dresses, then bent down and opened the door to the attic hidden under the eaves. Flipping on the light switch she heard an angry hum, then saw the hornet’s nest tucked into one corner of the sloped ceiling. Shiny black bodies reflected the light of the single dusty bulb as they crept over the thin paper of their home. Besides the hornets, she spied spiders skulking in cobwebs that draped from the ancient, exposed rafters. She wondered about bats, saw some droppings but no furry little winged bodies hanging upside down. The attic smelled of must and mildew—this was no place for her important papers. She’d have to build cabinets in the den or second bedroom. Gritting her teeth she crawled carefully across the rough plank flooring and glanced down at the dust…was it disturbed? The top of the boxes…it seemed to be cleaner than it should, as if someone had wiped them to look at the tags…but…She shook her head. What was wrong with her? No one had been in her attic and the boxes were relatively clean because she’d sorted through them six months ago, when she’d hauled them to the attic. She’d been in here six months ago—no one else had.
And yet she couldn’t ignore the niggle of doubt that crept through her mind. Had someone been in her house? She bit her lip and silently told herself to be rational.
Carefully, she read each label, sorting through boxes of old tax records, school papers, reports and patient files until she found the box with Annie Seger’s information in it. Dragging the crate into the closet, she heard the hornets buzzing. One mad insect followed her through the long skirts of her dresses, landed on her head and as she swatted at him, stung her on the side of the neck.
“Damn.” She shut the door to the attic, latched it firmly and carried the box into the bedroom, where she dropped it unceremoniously on the floor. Her neck throbbed. She’d have to do something about the nest and soon before the hornets found their way into her closet, bedroom and the rest of the house.
In the bathroom, she doused a washcloth in cold water, then using a mirror inspected and washed the sting. A red welt had already risen on her skin and the only medication she had in the cupboard was years-old calamine lotion which she dabbed on the side of her neck. “Stupid thing,” she muttered and heard Mrs. Killingsworth’s dog start to bark. She walked toward the front of the house to investigate and heard footsteps on the front porch. Expecting to hear the doorbell chime, or a rap of knuckles on the door, she started downstairs.
The telephone rang and she yelled, “Just a minute,” in the direction of the door as she dashed into the den.
She swept up the receiver before the third ring. “Hello?” she called into the mouthpiece. No answer. “Hello?”
Again no response. And yet someone was on the other end of the line. She was certain of it. Could sense that someone was there.
“Who is this?” she said, irritation and a drip of fear in her voice. “Hello?” She waited thirty seconds, then said, “Look, I can’t hear you.”
Was there someone breathing on the other end or was it a bad connection? It didn’t matter. Without saying goodbye, she hung up and tried to convince herself it was nothing.
Or was it?
She checked caller ID.
Unavailable.
Just like the calls to the station.
Don’t even think that way. It was a bad connection. Whoever it was will call back.
She walked into the foyer to the front door and realized that the bell had never rung, nor had anyone knocked. Odd.
She looked through the peephole, and through the fish-eye lens saw no one.
Leaving the chain in place, she opened the door a crack and snapped on the exterior light.
The porch was empty. Her wind chimes jingled in the breeze. Across the street Hannibal was staring at her house and putting up a ruckus, barking his fool head off.
Unhooking the chain, she stepped outside. She was alone. But the porch swing was swaying. As if someone or something had pushed it.
Her heart froze. She scanned the front yard and drive. “Hello?” she called into the coming night. “Hello?”
From around the corner there was a noise—the scrape of leather on aging planks. Or her imagination?
Heart hammering, she walked to the corner of the porch and looked along the side of the house where the porch fell in shadow. Aside from the patches of light thrown from the dining-room window, the night had closed in.
Squinting, she was certain she saw a movement in the hedge separating her house from the neighbors, but it could have been the breeze filtering through the leaves or a squirrel scrambling over the branches, or even a cat slinking through the shadows.
You’re losing it, Sam, she thought, turning back to the front of the house. You’re imagining things.
But the old porch swing was still rocking slightly, mocking her as it swayed, and the sense that she w
asn’t alone, that hidden eyes were watching her made her skin prickle. Who? she wondered as she walked inside and locked the door firmly behind her. The phone shrilled and she started.
Get a grip!
She let it ring again. And again. Heart hammering, she picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hello, Dr. Sam,” John’s voice intoned and she leaned against the desk for the support. “You know what day this is, don’t you?”
“It’s the twenty-second.”
“Annie’s birthday.”
“So you say. Who was the girl who called in the other night?”
“Have you thought about your sins? That you should repent?”
“Repent for what?” she asked, sweat dripping down her back. She glanced out the window, wondered if he was outside, if it was his footsteps she’d heard on the porch, if he was calling from a cell phone. She stepped to the window and drew down the shade.
“You tell me.”
“I’m not responsible for Annie’s death.”
“Not the right attitude, Sam.”
“Who are you?” she demanded, her muscles tense, her head pounding. “Have we met? Do I know you?”
“All you need to know is that what happens tonight is because of you. Because of your sins. You need to repent, Sam. Beg forgiveness.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked, suddenly cold as death.
“You’ll see.”
“No—Don’t—”
Click. The phone went dead.
“Oh, God, no!” Sam wilted into her chair. Dropped her head into her hands. She’d felt the evil in his voice, the cruelty. Something was going to happen. Something horrid. And she was to blame.
Pull yourself together. Don’t let him beat you down. You have to stop him. YOU! Think, Sam, think. Call the police. Alert Bentz. And then do whatever you can.
She dialed the police in New Orleans and nearly went out of her mind when she was told Rick Bentz would be paged and he’d have to call her back. “Tell him it’s an emergency,” she insisted before hanging up. What could she do? How could she stop whatever evil John had planned? She jumped when the phone rang again, picked up the receiver, expecting another threat.
