Silent Storm

by Amanda Stevens

  She entered her grandmother’s bedroom with trepidation. The room was just as she remembered. Neat and orderly. Furnished with dark, heavy furniture. A white chenille bedspread covered the bed and lace curtains hung at the windows.

  The room was pleasant enough, Marly supposed, except for the bad memories. The moment she’d turned on the light, her gaze had been drawn to the ceiling beams, and she had a feeling that the dark spirit of her grandmother still hovered somewhere nearby.

  Shivering, she crossed the room to the old phonograph that had once graced the front parlor. It now rested atop a burled walnut console, which housed her grandmother’s prized collection of 78s.

  Marly knelt and began thumbing through the covers. She didn’t know the artist’s name so she had to read through all the song titles. When she finished, she went back and rechecked, but “Gloomy Sunday” wasn’t among any of the recordings.

  Was it possible the police had confiscated the recording when they’d searched the house after her grandmother’s death? Several other items had been taken during the course of the investigation, and Marly had no idea if any of them had ever been returned. For all she knew, the record might still be locked up somewhere in the evidence room at the police station.

  Dusting her hands, she rose and walked over to the window to stare out. A light was on in the garage apartment, and she remembered that Max Perry had said Sam had a new tenant.

  As she watched the rain, her thoughts turned once again to Sam and his dinner guest, and she couldn’t help wondering if there was a secret her brother had been keeping all these years.

  “I’M LOOKING FOR SAM,” Deacon said a little while later when a man he’d never seen before answered his knock at the back door.

  “You must be the new tenant.” The man stuck out his hand. “I’m Max Perry, a friend of Sam’s.”

  “Deacon Cage.”

  From somewhere inside the kitchen, he heard his new landlord call out a greeting. “Come on in, Deacon.”

  Max Perry stepped aside to allow him to enter. Then he walked over and leaned against a counter, watching Deacon with dark, curious eyes. He was as tall as Sam, but lankier, and his tweed jacket and black-rimmed glasses gave him a distinguished, intellectual air.

  Sam stood at the stove, stirring a pot of something that smelled delicious. Deacon hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and the delectable aroma made him suddenly aware of his empty stomach.

  Sam turned from the stove. “I’m making spaghetti. Nothing fancy. Just a few spices added to store–bought sauce. But you’re more than welcome to join us.”

  The offer was tempting, and Deacon might have taken him up on it if he hadn’t noticed the impatient look the invitation drew from Max Perry.

  “Thanks, but I still have some unpacking to do.” He held up an envelope. “I’ve brought you the rent money.”

  Sam nodded toward the counter. “Just put it there.”

  “You don’t want to check it?”

  “I know where to find you if you’re short.” He seemed different tonight, Deacon thought. Friendlier and less guarded. “If you won’t stay for dinner, how about a quick drink? Max just opened a bottle of wine, but I’m having a beer.”

  “A beer sounds good,” Deacon agreed.

  “Max, would you do the honors?” Sam turned back to the simmering pot.

  “Certainly.” Max extracted a cold beer from the refrigerator. “Mug or bottle?”

  “Bottle is fine.” Deacon accepted the drink and twisted off the cap.

  “So what brings you to Mission Creek?” Max asked as he poured himself a glass of wine.

  “He came to town to look up an old acquaintance,” Sam supplied before Deacon had a chance to answer.

  Max lifted an eyebrow. “Well, I’m afraid you’ve picked a lousy time to visit. The weather is atrocious, and now with all these suicides…” He trailed off. “You’ve heard about them, I suppose.”

  Sam turned with a scowl. “Damn it, Max, can we go one night without talking about the suicides? That’s all anyone at school ever talks about these days. I’d like to have one conversation that doesn’t revolve around death and rain.”

  “I only brought it up because Marly and I were talking about it earlier,” Max explained. “She has an interesting theory about cults.”

  “Cults?” Sam scowled. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Max sipped his wine. “Cults as in mind control. Brainwashing.”

  “You’re joking, right? A cult in Mission Creek? That’s a good one.” But Sam’s expression was anything but amused.

  “It might not be as far-fetched as you think,” Deacon murmured.

  Max glanced at him curiously. “Except for the fact that the victims appear to have no connection.”

  “Maybe the connection just hasn’t been made yet,” Deacon said.

  Sam’s amicable mood had vanished. His expression was downright glum now. “What kind of connection could there be?”

  “Yes,” Marly said from the doorway. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  The moment Deacon’s gaze met hers, his stomach tightened in awareness. She wore faded jeans tonight and a soft yellow sweater that brought out the gold in her eyes. She even had on lipstick. The delicate pink sheen made her lips look full and lush and indescribably sexy.

  Marly wasn’t a particularly pretty woman, but there was something about her, a kind of budding sexuality that seemed on the verge of full bloom. And in the throes of passion, she would be beautiful, Deacon thought.

  “Marly,” Sam said. “I’d like you to meet Deacon Cage. He’s rented the garage apartment. This is my sister, Marly.”

  “We’ve met.” Marly came slowly into the room, an angry glint in her eyes. “So you are planning to stay in town then.”

  “For the time being.” Deacon gave her an amused glance. “No law against that, is there?”

  Her mouth tightened as she tucked her short hair behind her ears. “Let’s get back to what you were talking about when I came in. If you’ve discovered a connection in all these deaths, I’d be very interested in hearing about it.”

  “There’s one connection I’m sure you’ve already thought of,” Deacon said.

  They all stared at him expectantly.

  “Two students, an ex-teacher and a man employed on campus.”

  Marly’s expression was skeptical. “You think the high school is the connection?”

  “It’s a connection,” Deacon said. “Whether or not it played a factor in any of the deaths, I can’t say.”

  “But Gracie Abbot retired years ago,” Marly pointed out.

  “She still occasionally substituted,” Sam said reluctantly. “Although she wasn’t used very often. Not to speak ill of the dead, but she wasn’t well-liked by either the students or the faculty.”

  “Too much of a busybody,” Max muttered.

  A hissing sound from the stove brought Sam around with a curse. “Damn, I’ve let the sauce burn.”

  Deacon set aside his beer and straightened. “I’d better shove off and let you get to your dinner.”

  “Sure you won’t stay?” Sam asked.

  “No, thanks. I need to get back to my unpacking.”

  Sam turned to his sister. “Marly?”

  “I have to go, too. I’ll walk you out,” she said to Deacon.

  Once they were outside, she stopped on the patio and glanced back at the door.

  Deacon peered at her in the darkness. “Anything wrong?”

  She shook her head. “No, I was just wondering about something. But it doesn’t matter. I’m more interested in finding out how you came to rent my brother’s apartment.”

  He shrugged. “I heard someone mention yesterday that he had a place for rent.”

  “And the fact that the apartment belongs to my brother is just a coincidence?” she asked doubtfully.

  “What else could it be?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “You tell me.”

&n
bsp; “Marly.” He started to place his hands on her shoulders, but thought better of it. “Your brother had an apartment for lease, and I happened to be looking for a place. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Why do I get the impression that nothing involving you is simple?” Her eyes gleamed in the rainy darkness. “I don’t know why you’re here, but I have my suspicions. My guess is that you’re a reporter sniffing around for a story or you’re a private investigator hired by one of the families to dig up something they can use in a lawsuit. Or else…”

  He lifted a questioning brow.

  She let out a breath. “Or else you’re just flat out crazy.”

  “I’m not crazy,” he assured her. “And the only reason I’m here is to help you.”

  “That’s what you keep telling me,” Marly said angrily. “But what you don’t seem to understand is that I don’t need or want your help. There is no killer in Mission Creek.”

  “You’re wrong, Marly. Dead wrong.”

  He saw her shiver in the darkness. “Then prove it.”

  “You want proof?” His voice held a note of challenge. “Come up to my apartment and I’ll give you what you need.”

  THAT WAS THE OLDEST LINE in the book, and Marly shot him a disgusted look, but her heart began to hammer.

  “Are you scared to come up to my apartment?”

  Yes, she thought. She was very afraid. But she shook her head in denial.

  “Then come on up,” he urged softly. “I have something I want to show you.”

  Marly knew she should resist, but instead she found herself nodding in agreement—although she had no idea why—and followed him out into the rain.

  They climbed the steps together, and Deacon stood back to allow her to enter the apartment first.

  He’d left a light on earlier and Marly glanced around, recognizing the odds and ends of furniture that had once belonged to her grandmother.

  “I’m sorry I can’t offer you something to drink.” Deacon closed the door behind them. “I haven’t made it to the store, yet.”

  “That’s fine. This isn’t a social call,” Marly reminded him.

  “At least let me take your jacket.”

  Marly realized she was dripping on the rug. She slipped out of the windbreaker and handed it to him. “Sorry.”

  “No problem. Would you like a towel?”

  “No, don’t bother.” She wrapped her arms around her middle. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  If her brusqueness irritated him, he didn’t let on. He walked over to the table and picked up a folder. “Take a look at this.”

  Reluctantly Marly joined him. Opening the folder, she quickly scanned through the contents, thinking at first the dozens of newspaper clippings about a series of suicides had been snipped from the local paper. Then she realized the dateline was almost two years old.

  She glanced up in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “What’s happening in Mission Creek has happened before,” Deacon said grimly. “Two years ago there was a series of unusual suicides in Glynnis, Oklahoma. Seven people took their own lives in a four-week period.”

  “So?” Marly closed the folder and handed it back to him. “That doesn’t prove anything. Suicides happen from time to time, even in small communities. Even within a single neighborhood. Max Perry said it was known as cluster suicides.”

  “This isn’t the same thing,” Deacon said. “Cluster suicides have a catalyst or a common bond among the victims. The suicides in Glynnis appeared unrelated. The victims were from disparate backgrounds, age groups, careers. No connection was ever found.”

  “But that still doesn’t prove it was anything other than suicide,” Marly insisted.

  “It wasn’t suicide. It was murder.”

  “Are you saying the suicides in Glynnis and the ones here are somehow related?” she asked incredulously. “Are you saying the same person is responsible?”

  He shook his head. “It isn’t the same person. But they have the same ability.”

  “They kill with their minds.” Marly felt ridiculous even saying it. “I’m still not buying it.”

  “Then I guess I’ll just have to prove it to you.” His voice made Marly shiver with awareness, and she wondered how wise she’d been to come up here with him. Crazy or not, he was a very attractive man, and she was…she was a cop, was what she was. She could handle Deacon Cage.

  He laid the folder aside and glanced down at her. “I told you before that the man you’re looking for has a military background. He was once part of a black special ops team connected to an underground organization known as the Montauk Project. It was run by a group of scientists and paramilitary personnel whose goal was to create an army of secret warriors—super soldiers—with psionic abilities who would stop at nothing to accomplish their mission.”

  “Psionic abilities as in psychokinesis?”

  “Among others, yes.”

  Marly almost laughed. He had to be pulling her leg. “And you expect me to believe that? Secret warriors? Super soldiers? Come on.” When he didn’t smile, her own amusement turned to amazement. “You can’t be serious. Look, if you tell me we’re dealing with a psychopath so cunning he can make his kills look like suicide—I might be willing to hear you out. If you tell me he’s so clever and meticulous that he doesn’t leave behind even one speck of DNA or trace evidence—you’d probably get my attention. But this crazy X-Files explanation is ridiculous. I don’t know what your agenda is, but you’ve wasted my time bringing me up here.”

  She turned to leave, but Deacon caught her arm. “Wait a minute, Marly. I told you I could prove it, remember?”

  The way he said her name sent a fresh tremor through Marly. His voice was very seductive, his eyes hypnotic. She tried to look away, but couldn’t.

  He was standing very close to her now, and Marly caught her breath as she gazed up at him. She wanted to back away, wanted to turn and run, but she couldn’t. She was paralyzed, unable to move, unable to do anything but tremble with dread. With anticipation.

  Lifting a hand, he trailed a finger along her jawline, and she still couldn’t move. He skimmed her throat, the V-neckline of her sweater, and Marly offered not so much as a whimper.

  Cupping a hand around the back of her neck, he drew her to him, and she came—not willingly but without will. Without choice.

  She wanted to close her eyes and break the spell he’d cast over her, but she couldn’t even do that. Instead she moistened her lips and parted them for his kiss. And when it finally happened, her breath rushed out on a gasp. Her knees went weak with shock.

  Her eyes drifted closed then, but the spell remained. If anything she became more deeply enthralled as he pressed his mouth against hers, forcing her lips to open fully. And then his tongue invaded.

  Marly trembled all over, shivered as if she were freezing, but her body was in flames. She was no stranger to a man’s mouth, a man’s hands, a man’s body. But she’d never been so totally consumed by a man as she was now. She’d never been in danger of losing control as she was at that moment. She didn’t recognize herself. Didn’t recognize the moans emanating from her own throat.

  She flattened a hand against his chest, but not to push him away. Instead she slid her palm downward, along the sleek muscles of his abdomen, and lower still, to press against the front of his jeans. And now it was he who groaned against her mouth, he who seemed on the verge of losing control.

  His hands moved inside her sweater, finding and cupping her breasts, and Marly arched into him.

  She was so lost in the moment that she didn’t immediately realize when it was over. But suddenly Deacon was no longer kissing her. His hands left her breasts to straighten her sweater. Then he pulled away from her.

  And Marly had never felt so bereft in her life. So utterly betrayed.

  SHE GLANCED UP AT HIM, her eyes clouded with confusion and lingering desire. He’d been right, Deacon thought. In the throes of passion, Marly Jessop was a be
autiful woman.

  As she stood frozen in place, the bewilderment in her eyes slowly turned to disbelief. Then to fear. And finally to horror as it dawned on her what had happened.

  Deacon had seen that look before.

  He put out a hand to her, but she jerked away. “Don’t touch me.” She began backing toward the door. “What did you do to me?” she whispered on a ragged breath.

  “Marly—”

  “Don’t say my name. Don’t come near me. Don’t even look at me.” She was at the door now, and she paused with her hand on the knob. “I don’t know who you are,” she said through gritted teeth. “I don’t know what you are, but stay away from me. Do you hear me? Stay the hell away from me.”

  MARLY DASHED THROUGH THE RAIN to her car, jerked open the door, and jumped inside. Starting the engine, she careened away from the curb, her tires spinning dangerously on the wet pavement. She warned herself to slow down, to concentrate on her driving before she ended up in a ditch, but she couldn’t think of anything but Deacon Cage. Couldn’t forget what had almost happened between them. What he had made happen.

  But that wasn’t possible, she told herself. He couldn’t force her to do anything against her will. She must have wanted it. A part of her must have invited it.

  She clutched the steering wheel with trembling hands. Through the rain-streaked windshield, she could see intermittent flashes of lightning where a fresh storm gathered on the horizon. Marly drove straight toward it. Drove without looking back. Drove through the night as if the nastiest demons in hell were chasing her.

  Her heart still pounding, she wheeled into a parking space near her building, then ran through the rain to her apartment. Locking herself inside, she collapsed against the door and squeezed her eyes closed, trying to block the memories. But she couldn’t forget. How could she, when she could still taste Deacon Cage’s mouth on her lips, still feel his hands on her breasts? When her whole body still churned with her desire for him?

  Stumbling across the room in the dark, she lay down on her sofa, cradling a pillow in her arms as she drew her knees up to her chest.