Fade To Black

by Leslie Parrish

  The silence deepened. They were utterly still, both looking out the window into the night.

  She knew in his mind he was picturing the same things she was. A little boy and a monster. Wishing for the dawn of a new day, when, please God, they could get the financial information they needed to track that monster and save that boy.

  For him, it had to be a hundred times worse. Because he was a father. He had a child to fear for, a child whose loss would surely crush his soul. For the first time, she wondered what the boy looked like. If he was dark haired and dark eyed like Dean. If he shared the stubborn jaw, the hidden sense of humor.

  She wondered whether Dean had ever had to pick him up when he had fallen off a bike. If he had cleaned Jared’s cuts and wiped his tears and tucked him into bed.

  Of course he had. She’d been on one side of his sweet good-night conversation with his son. The love had been clear. There was nothing the amazing man beside her would not do to keep his child, or anyone he cared about, safe from harm.

  Stacey could only wonder how, in his profession, he hadn’t yet realized that was an impossible goal.

  She sniffed.

  “You okay?”

  In the darkness, his hand reached out for hers. She clasped it, twining her soft fingers between his rougher ones.

  She liked his hands. They were masculine and strong, yet, she knew from experience, capable of giving such pleasure. Such eroticism.

  And, right now, such tenderness. That hand in the dark was like a lifeline she could cling to, a path through the tangled web of horror and memory and emotion that had buried itself inside her. As if as long as he was holding her hand, she could come out to the other side whole and unscathed.

  “I feel like I’ve known you for a long time,” she admitted softly.

  “Me, too.”

  He leaned closer, and it was the most natural thing in the world for her to meet him halfway and rest her head on his shoulder. The feel of a soft kiss brushed on her temple soothed and warmed her. Offered safety and sanity.

  Maybe because of that simple caress and the silence disturbed only by the cry of cicadas outside the open window, she was able to speak. Something made her want to try to make him see that her choice to come back here, to stay here, where he was so convinced she didn’t belong, wasn’t out of fear. But out of grief.

  “I was on patrol when the first call came in,” she whispered.

  He said nothing, but his hand squeezed the tiniest bit.

  “The radio traffic was insane. Reports that a student was shot in the dorm, then that the shooter was long gone, then that the school was under attack. Nobody knew what was happening.”

  He kissed her hair again. And the grip on her hand grew tighter as she kept speaking.

  The words came fast now. They had been building for a long time. People knew the basic story, but she’d never shared what it had felt like being there, bearing witness. And once she started to speak, she felt almost unable to stop.

  By the time she was finished, her face was wet with tears. No, she wasn’t sobbing as she had Saturday night. This was low, deep-down, quiet grief straight from her soul.

  At some point in the telling, he’d reached over and physically pulled her off her seat into his lap. Her arms were curled around his shoulders, his around her waist. Her mouth close to his throat, the whispers kept coming.

  Until, at last, they were done. She was done.

  He had murmured sweet, soothing sounds, holding her close, kissing her face, and wiping away her tears. He never interrupted, never asked unimportant questions. He didn’t offer trite words of comfort about how life went on or how bad he felt for the families.

  Instead, between one brush of his lips on her cheek and the next, he whispered four others that were completely unexpected.

  “You’re not alone anymore.”

  They drifted into her consciousness, settling down deep inside. The certainty that he meant it filled her with possibility and with wonder. And brought her peace.

  She drifted to sleep, her head nestled in the crook of his neck. Only for a few minutes, judging by the time on the clock when she awoke. Still, it was late-after three. And they had to be back on the job in a few hours.

  Sitting up, she said, “I guess we should both go get some sleep.”

  He nodded.

  “Do you want to go back to the inn?”

  He shook his head.

  She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath, waiting for his answer. It rushed out in a gush. “Is that going to be a problem? With Stokes and Mulrooney, I mean?”

  “You know, right now, I don’t give a damn.”

  She smiled. He smiled back. And their lips came together in a sweet, tender kiss that soon turned into a deeper, more intimate one. She shifted her head, parting her lips, licking at him with lazy hunger. Dean moved one hand to her back, tracing a slow path up and down her spine. The other moved down to her lap to stroke her with butterfly caresses that had her pulse pounding in anticipation.

  “Let’s go,” she said when the kiss ended.

  “Will I be breaking laws if I drive your car?” he asked. “You look so tired.”

  “I’m not too tired,” she pointed out. Somehow, despite all the tension, emotion, and pressure, a low, sultry chuckle spilled from her mouth. “But yes, you drive. My legs are shaking all of a sudden.”

  He gently slid her off his lap and got out of the car to walk around to the driver’s side. Stacey curled up, turning a little to watch him. When he started the car, the dashboard lights sent pools of soft yellow illumination onto him, highlighting the masculine angles of his face and the shapely mouth she’d just been kissing.

  “Drive fast, okay?” she said. Because though she needed sleep, she needed him more.

  “I don’t want to get a ticket.” He didn’t look over, but she’d bet there was a twinkle in his eye.

  True to his word, he drove quickly, not breaking any land records, but not exactly obeying the speed limit, either. She understood the urgency. The confession she’d made, the gentleness and then the sweet hint of passion they’d shared, had them both on edge, needing more, wanting more. Connection. They both hungered for it.

  When they reached her house and walked hand in hand to the porch, however, she quickly realized she wouldn’t be getting that connection. Not yet, anyway. Shards of broken glass glittered in the ruined window frame beside the front door, and the door was open a few inches.

  Her house had been broken into.

  God, would this nightmare of a day never end?

  “Stace?” he asked, obviously realizing at the same moment that the slim front window had been smashed. Easy enough for someone to reach around and undo the lock. So much for safe, small-town living.

  “Damn it,” she muttered.

  “Shh.” He went immediately on alert, pulling his.40-caliber, pushing the unlocked door inward. It made a long, low squeak that seemed to demolish the silence, but probably couldn’t be heard any farther than a few feet away. Putting a hand out to stop her from going in, Dean stepped in front of her. “Let me look.”

  She knew what he was looking for. Steeling herself for the possibility that the same sick, twisted bastard had left her another bloody surprise, inside her house this time, she allowed him to enter first. But she stayed close behind him.

  There was no sign of anything wrong. Nothing else appeared broken except the window. As far as she could see in the dim lighting, the living room looked normal, everything in place.

  But she suddenly wondered something. Why was there dim lighting?

  Light shone down the hall from her bedroom. Not too bright, probably not from the overhead but maybe her bedside lamp. “I didn’t leave it on,” she whispered.

  He nodded, putting a finger across his lips in a gesture for silence.

  They crept down the short hallway, tense and alert, both with weapons in upraised hands, like two matching shadows. Honestly, Stacey wasn’t sure what sh
e was going to find. Someone lying in wait? Another dead animal? Her belongings scattered or destroyed? Anything was possible.

  Anything except what she saw when they entered the bedroom.

  A tall, lean man stood beside her bed. He had one hand up to his mouth, making low grunting noises into the small bit of pale pink fabric he held there. Judging by the jumble of items spilling out of the open top drawer of her dresser, she immediately suspected he held her panties.

  Swallowing her disgust, she looked down. And almost gagged.

  His pants were shoved to his knees and he stood directly above her bed, leaning against it. His other hand was wrapped around a fully erect penis, and he was pumping wildly, obviously intending to spew all over her bedspread.

  “You motherfucker,” Dean said, sounding not just disgusted but absolutely livid.

  The man froze in shock and dropped the panties. Dean leaped, taking the guy down with two sharp blows to the face.

  Stacey, meanwhile, couldn’t even move. Or say a word. She was too racked with disgust and humiliation at having been violated, even when she hadn’t even been at home.

  With those emotions came pure shock. Because she’d caught a glimpse of the intruder’s face before Dean had beaten him to the floor.

  It was Rob Monroe.

  16

  “He’s a sick degenerate. Is it possible he’s also the Reaper?”

  Dean didn’t really expect Stacey to answer; he’d been speaking more to himself. The two of them stood in her office back at the station, having hauled in the pervert who’d broken into her house. The guy had protested, screamed about his father the mayor, claimed it was all a mistake, then started crying.

  Well, actually, he’d been crying all along. Ever since Dean’s first punch had crunched into his cheekbone.

  “Is it possible?” she asked. “Sure. Anything’s possible, isn’t it?” Stacey, who looked so bone-weary she appeared on the verge of dropping, rubbed an exhausted hand over her eyes. “Do I think so? No.”

  “You know he killed your dad’s dog.”

  “He swears he hit her by accident when he was angry and out looking for me. That he did the rest only after Lady was dead.”

  “And you believe that?”

  She didn’t answer, looking as though she really didn’t want to know the truth right now. Maybe it was easier to believe that version, and he supposed it was at least possible. Even if it was true, Monroe was one sick bastard.

  “I do suspect he’s the one who’s made some late-night anonymous calls to me this week.”

  He gawked, not having heard that part before now. “He’s obviously unstable.”

  Judging by the things Monroe said in the back of Stacey’s squad car, he had been for a long time. He seemed to think he was in love with her because she’d had the really bad judgment to go out with him once when they were teenagers. He’d been obsessing about her since the day she’d come back to town.

  The hateful act with the dog? All about punishing her for being with Dean at the diner.

  Tonight’s break-in? Simple, unrelenting lust. His parents had gone out of town, the leash was loosened, and he’d been unable to resist his depraved urges. Maybe he’d just come over to spy on her and had taken his shot at stealing her panties when he realized she wasn’t home. Who knew what the sick creep had been thinking?

  “If he was the Reaper, don’t you think he would have just killed me when I pissed him off so much by being with you? Why the stupid, petty games? Why not grab me, take me somewhere, rape me, and slit my throat for his viewing audience?”

  Jesus, did he hate hearing those tired, matter-of-fact words coming out of her mouth. “I want to hurt him,” he growled, still feeling the black cloud of rage that had enveloped him when he’d seen the man in her room. The thought of what might have happened had he not accompanied Stacey home tonight haunted him. Yes, she could take care of herself. But she was exhausted and vulnerable. Any woman walking in on something like that might be slow to react. Even this incredibly competent one.

  His whole body shook, and he clenched his fists, pounding them on her desk, trying to force the fury away.

  “I’m okay,” she said softly, putting both her hands over his. “Dean, I’m all right.”

  Thank God. He couldn’t even imagine what he’d do if something happened to her.

  He hadn’t realized it until now. Yes, he’d said the words to her, told her she wasn’t alone. But he hadn’t realized until he’d walked into her bedroom and seen the attempted mind-rape that prick Monroe was trying to inflict on her, that he had fallen in love with the woman. Fallen fast, but fallen hard. And he would do anything to keep her from harm.

  “I don’t think I can stand up straight anymore,” she mumbled. Her beautiful face was haggard. Brown, half-moon smudges filled the hollows beneath her eyes.

  “Go home,” he said. He looked out the window, where dawn had begun to break. “It’s almost six.”

  “You need me.”

  “I don’t need you unconscious and collapsing from sheer exhaustion.” Acknowledging that he was on the verge of the same thing, he added, “Come back with me to my room at the inn. We’ll both crash for two hours, then get back here around eight and wait for Wyatt to call. He swears Lily’s had a major break and should know something this morning. And if she doesn’t, we won’t waste time. We’ll get a warrant and search Monroe’s house.”

  No, he didn’t really believe that weak, simpering prick was the Reaper. But it was something to go on, a thin lifeline to continue the investigation.

  “I want to go home.”

  He frowned, hating the thought of her walking back into that house.

  “Believe me, I’ll be throwing my underwear and my bedding out, but I really need to be in my own place. Besides, I don’t think it would be good for your fellow agents to see me leave your room later.”

  She had a point. “Okay, I’ll come with you, then.”

  “No, honestly, it’s all right. I’m tired, but I’m also horny, and if you come home with me, I’ll seduce you so neither one of us gets any sleep.”

  That didn’t sound like such a bad thing. At least, not at any other time. But today, there was too much at stake. “All right, you win. But I do demand a rain check.”

  “You’ve got it, and I’ll hold you to it.”

  Their stares met, and for an instant they were both back in the car, wrapped around each other, acknowledging in silence what he, at least, had already acknowledged in his head: They cared about each other. More than cared, on his part. Yet this wasn’t the place and certainly wasn’t the time to find out if she felt the same way.

  “Let me make a couple of calls and then we’ll go,” she said. “I need to let the DA’s office know about Rob so they can wake up a judge and get us a warrant.”

  He gave her fifteen minutes to make her calls. Then, as the sun rose and morning spilled through the windows, he took her by the arm and led her toward the exit.

  “Sheriff?” the deputy at the front desk said.

  “What is it, Frank?”

  “I got a call a few minutes ago from Mrs. Covey.”

  Dean tensed. Hours ago, he’d been convinced Randy Covey was the brutal killer who stalked Satan’s Playground. Now, even though he knew better, his head still pounded when he heard the name.

  “Is there any word on Randy’s condition?” she asked.

  “He’s unconscious, but it sounds like he’ll pull through. She said she’s been unable to reach Seth. I guess he was out when Mrs. Covey was notified, and she raced away, leaving him a note. He hasn’t responded or shown up at the hospital. Now she’s worrying herself into fits about him, too.”

  From the way she had talked about Randy’s mother, Dean knew Stacey didn’t like the woman. But sympathy for a mother’s fear made her nod in understanding. “I’ll swing by their place, make sure he’s okay, then let him know about his dad.”

  “Now?” He glanced at his watch. “He’s
a twenty-year-old kid, and it’s not even seven a.m. He’s probably dead-to-the-world asleep.”

  “If the situation weren’t urgent, I’d do it later. But Randy is in bad shape. If something had happened to my father, I’d want to know.”

  Being close to his own father, he completely understood the reasoning.

  “Besides, I like Frank and would rather spare him any more frenzied calls from Mrs. Covey. And it’s the least I can do, given what we thought.”

  He dropped a hand on her shoulder. “We thought that for very good reasons.”

  “I know.”

  They walked to the squad car, and Dean rode shotgun. He’d left his agency car at her father’s house. Since Stacey was going right by it to visit the Coveys, he’d asked her to drop him off so he could retrieve it.

  When they got there, he turned to her. “Go home and sleep.”

  “I’ll try.”

  He reached for the door handle, then turned back with a frown. “Don’t spend a lot of time at Covey’s. You need to rest.”

  She put her hand up and made an old scout’s-honor sign. “Promise.”

  Kissing her again, he got out and went to his car. As she turned around to drive straight out the long driveway and he followed, he couldn’t tear his attention off the back of her head. He watched the weary droop and noted the tangle of her long hair.

  He was worried. Well, he’d been worried for days, but this was something else. His cop’s sixth sense tingled, telling him something was off. Something was happening that he didn’t know about.

  He almost followed her when she pulled into the next driveway, but didn’t want to come off as nutty and overprotective. She’d proved more than once that she could handle herself. Could she ever.

  Tapping the horn, he waved and kept driving toward town. “Thirty minutes,” he told himself, watching in the rearview mirror as her car drove up the long, hilly driveway to the Coveys’. He’d give her a half hour; then he’d call to make sure she was home.