by Lisa Jackson
Eve rotated her neck, heard it crack, then slid into the driver’s seat, where she tore open the bag of candy and unscrewed her bottle of soda. After popping a couple of M& Ms and aspirin and washing them down with the Dr. Pepper, she set the bottle into one cup holder and the open bag of candy into the other.
As she turned the key and her car started, she noticed a dark pickup parked near the coffee hut. A ripple of fear slid through her. Was it the same truck that she’d thought was following her earlier?
There are thousands of trucks like that, she reminded herself. She couldn’t make out the smudged plates from this distance, but they were definitely from Louisiana. The bed of the truck wasn’t empty. A toolbox positioned near the back window had been bolted into the truck’s bed.
Probably a construction worker or handyman or farmer…no big deal. Right?
But as she pulled out of the lot, she glanced in her rearview mirror and saw a tall man in wraparound shades slip through the glass door of the mini-mart to stand and stare at her. “Sweet Jesus,” she whispered. She told herself she was overreacting, that the guy was probably just looking across the street at the drive-in lane at McDonald’s, where a vanload of kids were yelling at the speaker box.
BEEP!!
Eve gasped and stood on her brakes.
Her car rolled just short of the access road as a red, low-riding sports car, hip-hop music blaring, jetted by, just inches from her front bumper. The three teenaged boys inside yelled obscenities and flipped her off.
She sucked in a breath, her heart knocking wildly. She’d been so caught up in her own personal paranoia, she’d neither seen the car approaching nor heard it roaring down the road. Had there been an accident, it probably would have been her fault regardless of the other vehicle’s speed.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
Glancing backward, she saw no one. The man in the doorway had moved. Probably to get into a car and go about his business. It had nothing to do with her. “Get a grip,” she growled to herself as she eased onto the narrow road and squinted against the lowering sun. At a red light near the ramp leading to the freeway, she leaned over the passenger seat and opened the glove box, where she’d stashed her dark glasses.
A manila envelope that had been crammed into the small compartment fell to the floor. Dozens of scraps of paper, that looked like jaggedly cut clippings and articles, spewed onto the floor mats and between the seats.
“What the devil?” she whispered as the light turned green.
The driver of the SUV behind her laid on the horn, and Eve stepped on it, somehow accelerating onto the entrance ramp and merging with southbound traffic.
But her heart was thudding, her eyes darting from the road ahead to the scattered pieces of paper. She grabbed one off the passenger seat. It had sharp, jagged edges, and Eve realized the article had been clipped with pinking shears. Her heart was thudding as she held the piece of paper against the steering wheel and scanned the headline:
TWENTY-YEAR-OLD MYSTERY SOLVED.
WOMAN’S DEATH RULED A HOMICIDE.
“What?” Driving nearly sixty miles an hour, she didn’t dare read the article as she drove, but several phrases leapt out at her.
Faith Chastain, murder victim.
Our Lady of Virtues Mental Hospital.
Detective Reuben Montoya of the New Orleans Police Department.
Eve’s confusion and anxiety increased. “My God,” she whispered, dropping the clipping. Montoya was one of the cops who had been integral in Cole’s arrest, and the mental hospital was a place Eve knew all too well. Her father had worked there, been the chief psychiatrist, and she had played on the grounds as a child. Faith Chastain. Why did that poor woman’s name ring a distant bell in her head?
Her throat turned to sand. She glanced at another article. It, like the first, had been cut with pinking shears.
SUSPECT IN TWENTY-YEAR-OLD KILLING ACCUSED OF RECENT MURDERS
“Dear Lord, what…?” Eve eased off the gas as she skimmed the article about a recent serial killer in New Orleans, a sick man who had killed at least half a dozen people.
She didn’t bother reaching for another. She got the idea. Biting her lower lip, she tried to concentrate on the road stretching out before her.
Who had left the packet in her car?
Who would know that she’d grown up at the old mental hospital?
Why all the interest in Faith Chastain, a woman long dead?
Her heart was hammering, her lungs tight. If she let herself, she could easily slip into a full-blown anxiety attack. “Hang in there,” she told herself and began counting silently in her head once again. One…Two…Three…
Whoever had put these articles in her car had done it deliberately…to make a point.
Why? When?
WHO?
All the clippings were about the mystery shrouding Faith Chastain’s death, and they hadn’t been torn or cut carelessly. Whoever had taken the time to cut out the articles had indeed done so with pinking shears. It was as if each of the little printed stories was surrounded by razor-sharp, even teeth.
Eve’s skin crawled.
She’d heard about the scandal surrounding the old, abandoned hospital and the more recent murders. The story had been all over the news a few months earlier.
Before Roy’s death.
Before a bullet had grazed her skull.
Who had left the envelope in her locked car? She checked her mirrors, saw no dark, ominous truck trailing after her. How had someone put the envelope in the glove box? She always locked her car….
Except at the gas station.
You thought you would just run in for a second.
You were distracted by the cat. By your headache. By the fact that you needed to pee.
Even so, she usually hit the remote lock on her key chain. It was automatic, part of her routine, and on this trip security was even more important. She was driving with most of her belongings in her Toyota. Would she have been so careless as to leave the doors unlocked?
She thought hard. She remembered locking the doors at the restaurant, but…maybe not at the gas station? A chill whispered through her as she remembered the phone call and the raspy voice:
He’s free.
What the hell was that all about?
And the truck she’d thought had been following her, was that somehow also connected…to the old asylum?
Don’t jump to conclusions.
“I’m not!” she said aloud, and from the backseat Samson growled.
Cold sweat broke out on her skin as she glanced in her mirrors again then floored it. She needed to get to New Orleans as fast as humanly possible. Once she was home, inside the house, with the doors locked, the dead bolts thrown, and the chains secured, she would read all of the articles that had been left for her and try to figure out what it all meant.
She knew this for certain: someone had followed her. The thick envelope hadn’t been in the car this morning when she’d shoved her sunglasses in the compartment that held her registration and maps.
Panic pulled at the edges of her mind. What else could the guy have left? A homing device? A bomb? A tiny camera?
Stop it. You’ve seen too many stupid murder movies lately.
But her breathing was erratic, her pulse jumping.
He’s free. The message from the anonymous caller was somehow connected to Cole Dennis’s release from prison. Was it also connected to Our Lady of Virtues Hospital? Had her mysterious caller left her the clippings? Was there some message she was meant to understand?
Or was she making up a plot when there was none? Searching for answers that simply did not exist?
Reaction sent a shiver through her, and Eve pressed her foot to the accelerator.
She found the envelope!
He knew it.
Could sense her fear, her panic.
Behind his dark glasses, the Reviver stared through his windshield to the road ahead. She was within striking distance. She
was having trouble concentrating, breathing hard, trying to keep her fear at bay.
And failing.
Hidden behind a pickup and an SUV, he forced himself to lag nearly half a mile behind her Toyota. From this distance, he was able to catch glimpses of her car and noted how her Camry hugged the shoulder, never going over the speed limit, even slowing, until suddenly she took off, the Toyota picking up speed as she tore past two semis going sixty.
Perfect.
Finally she understood.
He licked his lips and imagined her as he, too, passed a few cars. But he always kept his distance, tucking into the right lane between the semis, ever following her, knowing where she was heading.
He imagined her face. The terror in her eyes. The rounding of her mouth as she realized she was being targeted. He knew her fingers were tight and sweaty upon the steering wheel, her heart trip-hammering wildly, her fright nearly a living, breathing beast.
Oh yes.
His own pulse was beating a quick, blood-heating tattoo.
I see you. Do you see me? Do you feel me, Eve? Are you scared? I’m here. I’ll always be here. You can’t run away. Not ever. You and I…we’re destined to be together…to die together.
Smiling, he pressed his boot more heavily on the accelerator, his dark truck picking up speed. The bright sun was settling into the western horizon.
Darkness soon to follow.
He felt that sweet torture of adrenaline spurt through his bloodstream.
Because he knew what was to come.
Dusk suited Cole just fine.
He’d waited for it, his nerves strung tight, Sam Deeds’s warning playing and replaying like a broken record through his brain: Stay away from her…. She’s bad news.
Yeah, well, he’d known that from the get-go.
But he figured that at this point he didn’t have much to lose.
After four hours of cleaning and organizing the rental house, he needed a break. And he had business to take care of. He’d already loaded a small tool kit and flashlight into the Jeep. Now he walked outside to the front porch. Though it was dark, the streetlight gave off more than enough illumination for him to see some kids still outside on skateboards and bikes, weaving through the parked cars and trucks. One old guy sat on his stoop, puffing on a cigar, and a gray cat slunk along the chain-link fence guarding an alley. The twenty-somethings were still at work on their old car, the music still cranked loud. He leaned on the porch rail, and the dank scent of New Orleans reached his nostrils, an odor that permeated the smell of burning tobacco, exhaust, and dirt, a reminder that the slow-rolling Mississippi River wasn’t too far away.
As far as he could tell, his house wasn’t being watched by the police, but he wasn’t certain, and he knew for a fact that Detectives Bentz and Montoya wouldn’t give up; they’d be gunning for him. So he had to be doubly careful.
He climbed into the old Jeep and backed slowly out of the cracked concrete drive. No other car on the street pulled out, no engine caught, no headlights followed.
Yet he couldn’t be certain.
With one eye on the rearview mirror, he spent the next hour driving through the city streets, filling the Jeep with gas, stopping at a market for a few groceries, then easing through the warehouse district and the French Quarter. No one seemed to tail him. No car followed, only to disappear and have another one tag-team. Obeying the speed limit, he drove on and off the Pontchartrain Expressway and across the river twice, all the while checking the cars surrounding him, watching his mirrors, ever vigilant for a tail. The police would be good, probably using two or three different vehicles, but after a final stop at a convenience store a few blocks away from Bayou St. John, and seeing no one pull out after him, he felt he was safe from being followed.
At least for now.
So he let himself think about Eve.
Damn her beautiful, lying face. She’d pulled a fast one on him, betraying him, using him, and setting him up. How had he been so blind?
He’d asked himself the same question for three months and had come up with no answers. Not one lousy explanation. But then, he hadn’t been able to see her, to talk to her, to shake some sense into her.
All that was about to change.
As soon as he settled a few things down here, he planned on driving to Atlanta and having it out with her.
Damn but he’d loved her, thought they’d spend the rest of their lives together, and she’d turned on him. Big time.
He’d believed she was sleeping with Roy and still wasn’t certain about that. The truth was murky. But he knew there was someone else in her life, a man she’d never named, a man she’d protected.
He ground his back teeth together. Remembering was a form of torture—masochistic maybe, but necessary all the same.
His fingers clenched over the wheel as he recalled their last fight, how she, all rosy in sexual afterglow, teasing, nipping at his neck and chest, playing with his nipples as she lay beside him in the sweatsoaked sheets, had fooled him completely. His heart had barely stopped pounding wildly, his breath was still short, and there she was touching him again, hot fingertips toying, a small purr of delight slipping past pink lips when she’d felt him grow hard against her leg.
“Look at you,” she’d whispered, those blue-green eyes glinting wickedly. “All ready again.”
“Aren’t you?” he’d asked against her ear.
“I suppose I might be persuaded.”
He laughed at her sudden coyness.
“If you tried hard enough.” Her breath had been warm seduction, rolling over his skin.
“This is a test?” He’d kissed that sensitive spot at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.
“Mmmm.”
“Am I passing?”
“Barely,” she’d murmured, though her hands were already running their magic along the muscles of his back, and her nipples had tightened. He had run his tongue over one, and she’d arched up.
“Barely, my ass.” His breath had blown over the wet tip of her breast.
“And what a great ass it is.” One of her hands had cupped his buttock, the tip of her fingers brushing his cleft.
Lust had gushed through his blood, and he was suddenly white-hot with wanting her, feeling her touching him intimately as he swept her legs apart with his knees and…
“Shit!” he said aloud to the empty Jeep. He was driving ten miles over the speed limit, taking the risk of being pulled over when he didn’t dare have any run-ins with the cops. Not tonight.
He sucked in his breath, his hands sweaty over the wheel. The image of Eve lying upon her back, naked and wanting, her lips parted, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed with wet, hot desire, still pounded through his skull.
Yet on that night, within seconds of further lovemaking, her cell phone had rung and she’d nearly leapt from the bed. It was as if the caller, Royal Kajak, had yanked her to her feet with an invisible string.
“You’re leaving now?” Cole hadn’t hidden his surprise and growing anger as he watched her pull on a pair of tight jeans.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He needs me.”
“He’s a nutcase.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that he needs to talk.”
“About what?”
She’d hesitated then, and he’d sensed she was lying when she said, “I don’t know.”
“Sure you do.”
“I won’t until I talk to him.”
“At this time of night? It can’t wait?” He’d glanced at the clock. Already after ten. But his argument had fallen on deaf ears.
“I won’t be gone long. I know it’s late but…that’s Roy for you.” She’d slid her arms through her little scrap of a bra then pulled her long-sleeved T-shirt over her head.
“Where are you meeting him? Can’t he come here?”
“No…he’s…he’s at his uncle’s cabin, the one I told you about…where he and I used to go when we were kids.”
“The fishing cabin?”
“That very one.” She’d searched the bedroom, found one shoe, and slid it on.
“Call him back. Tell him to meet you here. Or…or at your house. Or in the morning, for God’s sake.” Cole had rolled to a sitting position. “You don’t need to drive out to some decrepit cabin in the swamp. I grew up out there. It’s not safe.”
“He’s already there. Waiting.”
“So what? His car won’t start? You can’t call him back, change the plan?”
“I’m going, Cole.” Her voice had brooked no argument. “Oh.” She discovered her other shoe near the window and stepped into it. “This isn’t open for debate. Roy is critical to some of my research, you know that.”
Cole knew in his gut that whatever Roy told Eve over the phone, it had nothing to do with her studies of aberrant psychological behavior. “If it’s just about research, then it can wait until morning.”
She’d shrugged into her jacket and headed toward the bedroom door. A woman determined. A woman with a secret.
Cole had thrown back the covers. “Hell, if you’re so goddamned stubborn, I’ll come with you.”
“No!” She’d spun on a heel to face him. “He has something he wants to talk to me about. Obviously something important. He won’t like it if I don’t come alone. He’ll clam up. Be embarrassed and self-conscious.”
“Eve, listen to—”
“How many times have you left me? Just up and went to meet a client without a word of explanation?”
He was surprised when she suddenly took the offensive. “That’s different.”
She had snorted and pulled open the bedroom door.
Quick as lightning, suddenly realizing she wasn’t going to listen to reason, Cole had shot out of the bed, grabbing his own crumpled Levis. “There’s lawyer-client privilege and—” he’d started to rationalize as he stepped into one leg of his jeans and hopped toward the door.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she’d cut him off.
On the landing overlooking the foyer, still struggling with the damned Levis, he’d called, “I don’t like this, Eve.”
