by Kaylea Cross
“You threw away my rose.”
The chill in his voice sent another shockwave through her. Oh, God. She’d wanted him to see her ripping his flower apart and tossing it over the balcony, but she’d never dreamed she would provoke him to this extent.
“I know you’ve been talking to the cops,” he continued, cocking his head as they sped onward. “Don’t you think that was a little over the top? I was only being friendly. Your biggest fan. Not that it matters now.” He stopped at a traffic light.
She raised her head and met his gray stare in the rearview mirror. Her breath was coming in rasps and her body wouldn’t stop shaking. Her heart slammed so hard against her ribs she was sure he could hear it. Where was he taking her? The minutes ticked by before he slowed and made another turn before stopping and killing the engine.
“Here we are. Home sweet home.”
Her house? He would carry out whatever he had planned inside her own home, where no one would hear her scream.
Unless she could trigger her security system. A spurt of hope surged within her.
She jerked away from the hands hauling her from the vehicle, strained from his touch as he manhandled her through the back gate. He closed it behind them and dropped her by the door. Lying on her side, she lifted her head as he jimmied the locks, reached up and punched in her alarm code. How had he known her password?
“You really should invest in a better security system. This one isn’t very safe,” he taunted, voice full of glee.
He yanked her to her feet and shoved her ahead of him, then secured the door behind them. She yelped when he ripped the tape off her mouth, wincing at the sting. He shoved her facedown on the floor and fumbled with the tape on her wrists and ankles. Why bother? Was he playing with her? Making her think she had a chance at escaping? Icy panic crept up her spine.
“Scream all you like,” he told her. “There’s no one to hear you.”
Nausea roiled in her stomach. She craned her neck around for a weapon, trying to come up with a plan. The house phone was ten feet away, sitting on the kitchen counter. Maybe she could bash him in the head with it and race out the back door, then use it to call the cops.
As soon as he freed her feet she leapt up, tearing herself from his grasp. Throat clogged with terror, she bolted for the phone. His arms wrenched her backward, and she landed a blow to his face with her elbow, producing a satisfying crunch. He howled and released her, and she grabbed her chance to make a run for the door. She was quick and agile, and if she could only get outside she could get to her neighbor’s house.
Two steps away from freedom, he managed to snag the end of her braid, snapping her head back like a flower on a broken stem. Reeling, she hit the floor, the breath whooshing out of her as his weight crushed her into the hardwood. His hands flipped her over and she stared up at him, into those frigid gray eyes, trying with all her might to shove him off, to wrench her hands free to jab him in the temples.
“I warned you.” His face was nearly purple with rage, a trickle of blood leaking from one nostril.
“G-get off me,” she mumbled.
He smiled. An evil, cruel smile she had come to know too well. “I always hoped it would come to this.” He wrenched her arms above her, ignoring her cries, her crazed strength.
The blow came from nowhere, her head cracking to one side with the impact of his fist. Gasping, she lay there, trembling all over.
“I’m going to leave you with something to remember me by.”
When she dared open her eyes, he was holding another length of rope. A ball of ice congealed in her stomach.
He tied the loops around her wrists, her resistance futile against his strength. Then he hauled her up by her braid, one hand manacling her wrists as he heaved her up the stairs, panting at the effort it took him to subdue her. She managed to reach up and claw him across the face but he merely jerked on her braid and kept moving.
From the landing he pulled her writhing form into her bedroom and shoved her face down on her antique quilt. He climbed on top of her, jamming a knee into the small of her back and secured her left wrist to the brass headboard. She fought as hard as she could to keep her other hand free. A raw, half-mad growl issued from deep in her throat, a primitive sound of rage and denial. He seized her right arm, squeezing the wrist and lashing it to the bedstead. She stifled a sob.
She tried to twist away, but even in her adrenaline-fuelled state, her body was weakening. He kept his knee pressed hard into her spine and leaned back to tie her kicking legs at the ankles, spreading her thighs apart.
Bile rose and she gagged, shaking so hard the bed trembled as he reached past her to set something on the nightstand. A picture of her and Rayne.
“Now your boyfriend can have a front-row seat to watch the show we’re going to give him.”
Christa was so numb she couldn’t even shake her head. “He’s not—not my boyfriend.”
“Don’t lie to me.” He wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed, choking her until black spots swirled. “Don’t you dare lie to me.” When she went dead still he finally let go and she heaved in a breath, coughing as her airway reopened.
He moved off her so she could see him, poised there beside her. “I brought something special to show you,” he said, and her eyes focused on the gleaming silver blade in his hand. The iron taste of fear returned, filling her mouth, burning her throat as she fought against the ropes scraping and gouging her wrists. He laughed and leaned closer, his gray eyes as cruel and bright as the blade he moved toward her shrinking flesh.
Her screams echoed through the empty house.
Chapter Nine
Patrick Flannery loved and cherished all God’s creatures, to the point of transferring lost spiders out of his house into the yard where they would be safe from his wife and the spider-sucking attachment of her vacuum. He fancied he might have been St. Francis of Assisi in a former life, if it weren’t for his distaste of chickens. He stared hard at the chicken coop, as a man facing a mortal enemy might, held his breath and went in.
He swore loudly, flapping his arms about his head as the smelly beasts stirred up a cloud of dust and foul feathers thick enough to choke him. Lord Jesus, but what did a man have to do to gather his eggs? With the one lungful of air he grabbed as many as he could and retreated into the moonlight. In his basket he saw nine dirty little eggs. Well now. Nine was plenty, wasn’t it, though? Tomorrow morning he’d fry himself an omelet and make one for the missus.
“Patrick Flannery, did you find us some eggs or not?” his wife yelled out their bedroom window. She looked a picture this fine evening, standing there with her hair up in curlers and the blue robe he’d given her for Christmas wrapped around her.
Patrick brandished the basket. “‘Course I did, me darlin’. Nine of the little beggars.”
Her mouth formed an ‘O’ of surprise. “Your lungs must be getting bigger, don’t you think so?”
“Aye, I do. Will you be wantin’ an omelet with me in the mornin’, then?”
She flapped a hand. “Not likely. They’ve too much cholesterol and fat for a woman my age. Why don’t you go and see if Christa will take some?” She shut the window and disappeared from view.
Women! Hadn’t he built the damn chicken coop, because she'd insisted they needed their own, fresher-than-fresh free-run eggs from happy grain-fed hens? Lord love him, he’d almost lost his hands to those pecking, bloodthirsty creatures and for what?
He was forced to follow every fad diet that came along, even if she found it in the pages of the Enquirer or the Star. One week they could eat nothing but green things, the next only fruit. Damn woman was going to kill him someday, just see if she didn’t. For an instant he thought of keeping the eggs, in case it might be that next week they were to eat nothing but eggs. Was it too late to go over to Christa’s and give her the rest of them? Maybe she’d make him an omelet, right this minute.
But now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen his pretty n
eighbor all day. Usually he’d spot her loading up her truck with plants and spades, or hauling around a bagful of sporting gear. And this was the second night he’d not seen a light on in the house. Had she maybe gone off to one of those ball tournaments she never missed? Except when she did, she usually asked him to look after Jake...now there was something. He’d not seen nor heard Jake either.
Just then headlight beams cut along her driveway, and he chided himself. Here she was after all, heading home. But no, that wasn’t her vehicle. In fact, he’d never seen that car before. He hovered, fretful. If he went interfering and she thought he was a daft old fart for worrying about her, well, so be it. She’d have a fit if anything happened to her house. She was a woman living alone and he liked to look out for her.
Still grouching to himself about the eggs, he made his way through the hedges, getting a face full of spider web as he did so. Well, that was gratitude for you. It probably housed one of the spiders he’d rescued from the vacuum cleaner.
Pushing on, he strolled across the fresh cut lawn, saw nothing out of the ordinary. He pushed open the back gate in the picket fence, wandered through the garden and checked the rest of the property. If some dumb teenager fancied to break into the house, they’d have him to deal with. If only Jake were here, Patrick would have known for sure whether something was wrong. He had seen a program on the telly a couple nights before about animals doing things like sensing fires.
He tried the doorknob, but the back door was locked so he fished in his pocket for the spare key Christa had given him for when he came to check on things whenever she was away. Inside, all was dark. In the empty kitchen he set the eggs on the counter just as a faint sound came from upstairs. A squeak.
A squeak like a mattress moving. Patrick’s cheeks heated and he whirled on his heel. What had he gone and walked in on? She must’ve found herself a new boyfriend, that was all. Not that he’d ever known her to have one, but... Lord, he’d never be able to look her in the eye again.
He was almost out the door when he heard something else. Muffled noises, like growling—he strained to hear—then a sob. Was the bastard mistreating her? Outrage blasted through him.
“Christa?” he called. “Are you there?”
As he moved toward the staircase he heard her again. “Hello?” Surely he wasn’t hearing things?
A thud. Then screams. Lots of them, fearful enough to curdle the eggs for his omelet. Heart thumping, he grabbed a knife from the butcher block and darted up the stairs, ready to do battle. “Christa?”
He was nearly at the top when a figure shot out of her bedroom and barreled past him, sending him tumbling down the stairs, caught in a tangle of legs. In the weak moonlight filtering into the stairwell, a bald head gleamed. Patrick picked himself up and without bothering to check if anything was broken, dashed up to the landing to save Christa.
He was about to grab her bedroom door handle when she cried out. “N-no! Don’t come in. J-just call...the police...please.”
What was he to do? Didn’t he have to find out if she was all right? Without thinking better of it, he threw the door open. “Christ Jesus!” he breathed. She wasn’t wearing a stitch, tied facedown on her bed, blood on her face and some on the sheets about her body.
“Nooo!” she wailed, squirming as she tried to cover herself, but she couldn’t move.
“What the hell? Who the hell did this?” Keeping his eyes averted he rushed to untie the cruel bonds, revulsion and helplessness almost nobbling his arthritic knees.
The moment she was free she sat up and grabbed the quilt to cover herself. Her face was streaked with tears and blood. “Please, P-Pat. Call them.”
He ran back downstairs to dial 911.
****
Rayne’s cell phone shrilled from the nightstand, awakening him with a start. “Hello.”
“Hutch. Where are you?” Nate’s voice was unusually grim.
“In bed, trying to sleep. Why?” His heart leapt into his throat.
Nate sighed, which was never a good sign. “Something happened—”
“Goddamn it Nate, you’re freaking me out. Just tell me already.”
“It’s Christa.”
His whole body went rigid, as if tensing for a physical blow. “Is she all right?”
“No, she’s not.”
He swallowed, hard. “What—”
“Her stalker made his move, worked her over. The ambulance is transporting her to Memorial.”
Oh my God. Oh, Christa, sweet God, no... “Is she—was she—” Christ, he couldn’t even speak.
“She’s pretty spooked, and there was some blood, but she’s okay.” He cleared his throat. “She asked for you.”
She’d asked for him, and he hadn’t been there. Waves of nausea rolled inside him. He focused on breathing in and out until he was sure he wasn’t gonna hurl. There was some blood... “Did they at least catch the bastard?” His hands were shaking.
A moment of awful silence lingered. “Negative. Not yet. I found his prints in the system, confirmed they belonged to a Thomas Sutherland, a suspect in a homicide two years ago. He’s got a sealed juvie record as well. I called to warn her, but it was too late. I’d barely hung up when I got called to the crime scene. We’ve issued the APB and notified the border crossings. He won’t be out there for long.”
Rayne ran a hand through his hair. “Christ, when did this happen?”
“Not long ago. I called you as soon as I got a chance. Her neighbor came by to check on her house or something and found her. Scared the bastard off.”
“So he didn’t...?” A sharp pain sliced his chest. He couldn’t breathe. It took a minute before he could get a grip on himself. “For Chrissakes Nate, did the bastard rape her?”
“We don’t know yet. They’ll check it out.”
Please, not that. “You heading to the hospital?” He tugged on a pair of jeans.
“Yup. We need to get a statement from her and...well, you know the drill. But not until I’m sure she’s all right.”
“Okay. See you there.” He cut the connection, threw on a shirt and drove like a madman, praying he’d be strong enough to hold it together when he saw her. At the hospital he was told she was refusing the internal exam, and that she’d asked for him. He put on surgical gloves and protective booties over his shoes to prevent contamination of any evidence they might gather.
“Rayne!”
The raw anguish in her cry as he walked into the E.R. exam room ripped through him like a lightning bolt, nearly sending him to his knees. He steadied himself before answering. “I’m here, darlin’.” He put on his best game face, blotting out the sight of her lying on the exam table in a hospital gown, reeling as though someone had punched him in the gut.
Her face was black and blue, three butterfly bandages closing cuts on her mouth, and her left eye was swelling shut. She lifted a shaking hand toward him, bandages wrapped around both wrists. Bastard must have tied her and she’d cut herself up struggling to get loose. He wrapped his finger around hers and bent to gather her close. “I’m here,” he repeated, not knowing what else to say. He was glad to be able to hold her, to know she wanted him there. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then rested his cheek against her silky hair.
“Keep holding my hand, sweetheart,” he murmured as he pulled back, wiping the tears from her face. “I’m not going anywhere, so squeeze my hand if you need to, all right?” He made sure he kept eye contact, sensing she needed him to focus her away from the pain. The fear and shock in her eyes tore him up inside and he had no way of lessening them.
The doctor cleared her throat. “Okay, Christa, I’ve got to check you inside now.”
She shook her head, paling. “But I t-told you, I don’t need—”
“I’m sorry, but I need to—.”
“Can’t you at least give me a few m-minutes? Haven’t I been thr-through enough?” Her voice was shrill, rising with growing hysteria.
The doctor looked up at him.
“Maybe you should leave while I do the internal.”
“Want me to go?” he asked Christa. “I’ll come back in a few minutes.”
“N-no. No.” Her face was chalky white. “Stay, please.”
“Sure.” He moved closer and turned to face her fully, giving her as much privacy as possible.
The doctor gathered her equipment. “Try to relax. I’ll be as gentle and as quick as I can.”
She saw the speculum coming and went rigid, squeezing her eyes shut and turning her head away. Rayne’s own body tensed as he stroked the hair from her face, leaning partly over her to shield her from the glare of the lighting. She sucked in a breath and he felt her struggle to hold it there.
Just when he thought he’d kill the doctor, Christa sagged and shuddered.
“Are you finished?” she asked hoarsely.
“Almost.” The doc tossed the speculum in the steel basin beside her with a clang.
“Is it over?” she breathed to him, resting her cheek in his palm.
When he nodded she sank onto the table, trembling. The doctor and nurses fussed with her some more, but she barely noticed them, she was so lost in her own shock. They gave her an injection in her hip, and her eyelids drooped. “Rayne,” she whispered, fighting the sedative. “Please don’t go.”
He cradled her head against his chest, certain his heart was breaking. “I won’t leave you. You need to rest now, okay? Don’t fight it, just let go and sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”
****
Teryl perched beside her friend’s bed, tracking the slow rise and fall of her chest, the hushed, even whisper of her breath. Christa looked so damned fragile lying there, all cut and bruised, torn emotionally. She glanced over at Rayne, seated at the foot of the hospital bed. His eyes were haunted, one hand buried in his dark hair. It galled her a little that Christa had wanted him there when she’d first been admitted. She could be setting herself up for a big fall. Could she survive a fling with Rayne, especially after this?
