Break the Night

by Stuart, Anne

  And then he remembered why he felt guilty.

  This time it wasn’t some phantom occurrence, or even some remnant of deserved, leftover remorse. He had reason to regret his actions. He’d put an innocent woman in danger, and for the same damned reason. To get a story.

  Not that Lizzie Stride hadn’t been in danger already. He knew it, the police knew it, and she had to know it, too. She had too much clear intelligence shining out of her frightened, oddly familiar green eyes. Hell, he’d done her a favor, bringing it out in the open. Now she couldn’t hide from the fact that she had an unholy connection with a crazed killer. And, despite her comparatively demure life-style, chances were that her time with the Ripper would come, sooner or later. Forewarned was forearmed.

  “Hell, Damien,” he said out loud, “you’re a regular Mother Teresa. What other noble deeds do you have planned?” He drained his mug. When was he going to learn that he couldn’t interfere with people’s lives? Couldn’t change them, couldn’t change the world? Couldn’t even stop one lonely madman from butchering women?

  If only the dreams would leave him. If only he could sleep. But he wouldn’t allow himself to, not until he knew the answer. Not until he found out whether the horrific visions that tormented his nights were the product of his overworked imagination.

  Or his memory.

  BY QUARTER OF seven that night, Lizzie Stride decided that she’d lived through the worst day of her life. Courtland had been right—everyone knew about her. Everyone stared at her, furtively, watching for something. No one wanted to get close to her, as if knowing her would somehow bring them into contact with the Ripper himself. Hell, she thought with grim humor, it hadn’t even improved her tips.

  Her feet hurt. Her back hurt. Most of all, her head hurt, with a heavy, pressing weight, as if doom were hanging over her. It hadn’t helped that the manager had kept an eagle eye on her during the afternoon shift, obviously taking note of her customers’ reactions to her. Job security seemed about to be added to the list of her problems.

  “You’ve got a customer,” Courtland told her as she zipped past her on the way to the kitchens. “Third table by the window.”

  Lizzie glanced in that direction, but the booth was hidden by the Pelican’s omnipresent ferns. “Poor and ugly, right?”

  “Nope. Julianne and I made a beeline for him, but he asked for you. And he’s kind of cute, if you like the lean and hungry look.”

  Lizzie took a step backward, sudden terror slicing through her. “I don’t want . . .” she began in a harsh voice.

  “It’s not him, Lizzie,” Courtland said, in a pragmatic tone of voice.

  “How do you know?”

  “I know these things, remember? Besides, the Venice Ripper wouldn’t be that gorgeous. This guy just wants to talk to you. He’s probably harmless—maybe a reporter or something.”

  She still didn’t move. “What’s he look like?”

  “I told you. Gorgeous. A little haunted-looking, but then, I always liked the James Dean type.”

  “Damien,” Lizzie said flatly.

  “Is that what he looks like? I’m impressed. Why don’t I tell him you’ve left? After all, I could use the publicity just as much as Julianne can.” Courtland was already smoothing back her silver-blond hair in preparation for her latest conquest.

  “You do that,” Lizzie said, backing away. “I think I’m overdue for a confrontation with Mr. Harkin. He’s been giving me the evil eye all day. I have a suspicion I’m about to be fired.”

  “He wouldn’t dare.”

  “Keep Damien busy. I’ll slip out the back after I get my walking papers.”

  It wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. Mr. Harkin expressed his concern in low, doleful tones, made a firm suggestion that she take a few weeks’ leave of absence, and paid her in full for her time that night. Giving her a grand total of eighty-three dollars and sixty-three cents in her purse. Including six dollars and forty-two cents in tips, it was just about enough to get her as far away as West Hollywood.

  The rain had slackened by the time she stepped out into the darkness, coming down in a liquid mist that might have been refreshing. She moved to her old car quickly, ducking her head, afraid to glance back at the Pelican to see whether Courtland had managed to distract Damien.

  She was just fumbling with the key when a hand shot out and caught her arm, dragging her around.

  The scream died in her throat as she looked up into Damien’s haunted eyes. “If I’d been the Ripper I would have cut your throat by now,” he said.

  She swallowed, hoping she looked nonchalant. “Then I guess it’s lucky for me that you’re not.”

  “Don’t you know better than to park in a back alley?”

  She glanced around her. There was no one in sight—if Damien wanted to do more than frighten her, there was no one to stop him, no one to witness him. “I’ll take any parking space I can find,” she said. “In an overcrowded place like this, you can’t afford to be too choosy.”

  “You’re a fool.” His tone was bitter.

  “Is that what you came out here to tell me?”

  He just looked at her for a moment. The night before, she hadn’t realized how tall he was. He was thin, almost to the point of gauntness, and that merely accentuated his height. His rain-spattered coat hung loosely on his spare body, and his long hair was pulled back behind his head. She looked up at him, telling herself that she didn’t feel this irrational, emotional pull. Knowing she was lying.

  “As a matter of fact,” he said slowly, “it is. Among other things. I wanted to tell you I’m sorry I wrote that column about you. I should at least have warned Adamson. It’s not as if the Ripper doesn’t know who you are, but you didn’t need the extra attention.”

  “No, I didn’t,” she said, still watching him. She got the feeling he wasn’t the kind of man who apologized easily or often, and she wondered what had made him come out on a night like this to do it. “But you’re right, it probably won’t make any difference.”

  “He’s going to come after you anyway.”

  A bolt of fear shot down her backbone. “Don’t say that! You told me you thought I was safe.”

  “No one’s safe,” he said flatly. “You’re a smart woman. You know as well as I do that you’re in danger, even if you’re pretending you’re safe. Sooner or later he’s going to come after you. He probably thinks you’re his soul mate or something. Or maybe his ultimate victim.”

  “Stop it!” Her voice was shaking. “The police are keeping an eye on—”

  “The police are a bunch of incompetent idiots. The only one with any brains is Finlay Adamson, and he’s not there half the time. They’re not going to be able to protect you any more than they’ve been able to protect the eight women who’ve been murdered already.”

  “Seven,” Lizzie said.

  “What?”

  “Seven women. There’ve been seven women killed, not eight,” she said firmly.

  “The number doesn’t matter. What matters is that you might be next.”

  Lizzie leaned back against her car, feeling the dampness of the rain-wet metal soak through her loose white shirt. “Do you have any suggestions?” she asked, mildly enough, juggling the car keys in her hand. She ought to jump in her car, lock it and drive away from him as fast as she could. She was foolish to risk her life on the basis of her instincts. Her instincts about men had always been lousy.

  And J. R. Damien was a man possessed. He burned with an intensity that should frighten her, did frighten her. But it couldn’t frighten her away.

  “I already told you,” he said impatiently. “You need to get out of town.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “You have a car, don’t you? A credit card?”

  “No credit cards.”
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br />   “Then just get in this damned thing and keep driving till you run out of gas.”

  The rain was coming down a little harder now, soaking her shoulders beneath the thin white shirt. Glistening in his dark hair. “That should get me approximately ten miles, Mr. Damien. Not enough to get out of the Ripper’s reach.”

  “I’ll give you money” He was already reaching into his pocket when she held out her hand.

  “No.” Her voice was flat, implacable.

  “Why not? You can figure I owe it to you. I’m the one who put you in danger—”

  “I thought we agreed I was already in danger. I don’t need your money, Mr. Damien. I can take care of myself.” She didn’t even stop to consider why she wouldn’t take money from him. If she had any sense at all, she would take anything she could just to get the hell away from the city.

  But she couldn’t take it from him. He stared at her, frustration in his dark eyes. “I didn’t figure you would. It’s your funeral,” he said flatly. “Maybe.”

  He didn’t smile. “I’ll drive you home.”

  “My car works fine.”

  “I’ll wait and make sure.”

  She shrugged, deciding to humor him. She wanted to get away from him, away from the cocoon of warm, enveloping rain, away from the nearness of his body. J. R. Damien disturbed her, disturbed her deeply, and she was already troubled enough.

  She slid into the front seat, closed and locked the door, and turned the key. Listening, with growing dread, as the car made nothing more than an empty, listless clicking sound.

  Damien was standing there in the rain, watching her, no expression whatsoever on his face. She rolled down the window, looking at him in mute frustration.

  “You look like you expected it not to work,” she said.

  “Are you accusing me of tampering with your car, Ms. Stride?” He seemed unmoved by the unspoken accusation. “Now why would I do that?”

  She had no answer. She simply turned the key, pumping the gas pedal, hoping against hope that the damned thing would fire.

  It didn’t. With an angry sigh, she climbed back out, slamming the door behind her. She could always go back into the Pink Pelican and get a ride from Courtland, or, failing that, Julianne. It was the safe, logical thing to do. But there was something about Damien that didn’t make her feel safe or logical.

  “Did you offer me a ride home?” she asked.

  His expression didn’t change. She didn’t know how she recognized the triumph that lurked beneath his enigmatic surface, but she did.

  “Over there.” He jerked his head toward a disreputable-looking sports car, one that had clearly seen better days, one that in someone’s careful hands might have been a classic. In Damien’s long, graceful fingers it was little more than a wreck.

  The interior smelled of leather and cigarettes and rain. The seat belt didn’t work, the seat itself was covered with piles of old papers and crumpled bags, and the dashboard was cracked and gouged.

  “Nice car,” she said, shoving the papers onto the floor and climbing in.

  “At least it starts in the rain.” He didn’t bother to look at her.

  “It’s been raining for almost three weeks now, nonstop, and I’ve never had trouble before tonight.”

  “Maybe it finally got wet enough.”

  She sat back, trying to find room for her feet on the littered floor as the engine roared to life. It was well tuned, despite the car’s shabby looks. She’d known it was a mistake to accept a ride from him, but she didn’t realize quite how much of one until she was trapped in the tiny little cockpit of the old British racing car with a man she found distinctly unnerving. Overwhelming.

  Frightening.

  “I believe you know where I live,” she said, in a neutral voice, staring straight ahead at the rain-soaked streets.

  She could feel his eyes on her averted face. She didn’t want to turn to face him. His eyes were too lost, too tormented—to look into them was to be pulled down into his torment.

  “I know,” he said, pulling out into the traffic.

  The car had no radio or cd player—no surprise to Lizzie. He didn’t strike her as a man who had room in his life for music. He didn’t strike her as a man who had room in his life for much at all.

  “Did you like the food?” she asked, looking for a neutral topic of conversation before the tension in the tiny car made her scream.

  “What food?”

  “At the Pelican,” she said patiently.

  “I didn’t have anything but coffee. I didn’t come to eat, I came looking for you.”

  “The food’s very good there.”

  “I’m not interested in food.”

  “What are you interested in?”

  “The Ripper.” His tone was flat, vicious.

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing else.”

  “Then what are you doing here with me?” she asked, telling herself it was unadulterated relief that filled her as they neared her street.

  “Trying to save your life.”

  “Part of your noble calling, Mr. Damien?”

  “Just Damien.” He glanced over at her, and his expression left her even more disturbed. “Let’s just say I feel responsible.”

  The words hung heavily in the air for a moment. “I absolve you of your responsibility,” she said abruptly. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Sure you can, sweetheart. Like parking in deserted alleys and accepting rides from strangers who know too damned much about the Ripper case. How do you know I didn’t sabotage your car?”

  “Did you?”

  “You figure it out.” He pulled up outside her white stucco building. “You got any security system here?”

  “Locks on the doors.”

  He swore. “When do your neighbors get back?”

  “How did you know they were gone?” she countered.

  “I’m a reporter—it’s my job to know things. Stay in the car while I check the place out.”

  “The hell I will.” She got out of the car almost as quickly as he did. “I don’t need your help. I can take care of myself, I told you—”

  He ignored her, moving up the short flight of stairs to the front door, then coming to an abrupt halt. She barreled into him, and he caught her, his hands on her arms, strong hands, holding her there, and she could feel the intense heat of him, the fierce determination that rippled through him. She knew she had to be crazy not to run away, and she knew she was so crazy that she couldn’t.

  “What—?” she began, but he didn’t release her. Instead, he shook his head, silencing her, nodding toward her front door. She followed his gaze and realized with a dull throb of horror that the door she’d locked so carefully now stood ajar in the evening rain.

  Chapter Four

  A MOMENT LATER, Damien released her, stepping back. Lizzie could still feel the imprint of his hands on her arms, through the rain-damp white shirt, and she wanted to shiver in the sultry warmth.

  “It’s all right,” Damien said. “He’s gone.”

  She stared up at him in disbelief. “What do you mean, he’s gone? You haven’t checked. How do you even know it’s a he in the first place?”

  “I know,” Damien said, moving past her into the apartment, flicking on the light switch beside the door.

  Lizzie paused in the doorway, unwilling to be quite so trusting as she peered into the immaculate open spaces of her studio. She’d half expected to find the place trashed, but there was no sign of any recent visitor. She moved inside, carefully, closing the door behind her, shutting the rainy weather out. Shutting Damien inside. “It doesn’t look as if anyone’s been here,” she said. “Nothing’s been touched. Maybe the wind blew the door open.”

  He just gla
nced at her, his thin face derisive and disbelieving. “He was here,” he said, stalking through the apartment with a kind of neurotic yet negligent grace. He paused, looking at her workspace. “Are you always this neat?”

  She followed his gaze. “I haven’t cleaned for a while,” she said defensively.

  “You’re a sick woman.”

  “I don’t like squalor.”

  “Meaning I live in squalor?” Damien responded, and there was just the faintest trace of amusement on his thin mouth. “I couldn’t live in a sterile operating room like this.”

  “Then it’s a good thing we don’t live together,” she snapped, nettled.

  He looked at her for a long, measuring moment. “A good thing,” he echoed, turning back to stare at her walls. “Something’s missing.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She was getting truly irritated. Anger helped control the deep-seated tendrils of fear that were trying to fill her. “You’ve never been in this apartment before, and I happen to live here. Nothing’s missing.”

  He didn’t bother to respond, moving toward the rack she’d built to hold her masks while they dried. “He’s taken a mask.”

  “Stop it,” she snapped, as uneasiness began to swamp her. She crossed the room to his side. “No one was here, and none of the masks are missing. Don’t you think I’d . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she bit her lip.

  He didn’t waste words. “Which one?”

  She no longer tried to deny it. “The one I did last week. I called her The Bag Lady. She was actually rather sweet, with apple cheeks and a wrinkled kind of face. I must have taken it someplace, but . . .”

  “He took it.”

  “But why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Damien said wearily. “He must be planning to kill again.”