Silent Scream

by Karen Rose

  He had, indeed. Barney was well centered and the blood contrasted well with the white papers strewn over the desk. It would make a nice visual aid for the next bozo who ignored him. And for the College Four Minus One if they balked.

  He hoped the cops would find the hollow-point bullet that had exited Barney’s head and tie it to the dead cop-turned-security-guard. It would let him pull the noose a little closer around the necks of Eric and his friends.

  He pulled Barney’s office door closed and, pulling the ski mask over his face, left the way he’d come in. He wasn’t too worried about the cameras. After listening to Albert and Eric discuss their plans, he’d concluded the two had the cameras covered. Besides, the only video that would matter after tonight would be the video he took.

  On his way out he unlocked the cage that held Tomlinson’s dog, just as Tomlinson did every night when he left. The dog didn’t like Tomlinson at all. The warehouse manager handled the hound, feeding it and putting it back in its cage where it would pace all day. He hoped Eric and Albert didn’t plan to kill it. It was a beautiful animal.

  He closed the back gate and yanked on the twine Tomlinson kept tied to the door of the dog’s cage, just as Tomlinson did every night. The dog bounded out with a ferocious growl, jumping at the fence, teeth bared. Truly a magnificent animal.

  Buh-bye, he thought as he got into Barney’s car and drove away. He’d park it a few blocks over, then retrieve his own vehicle. That way when Eric and the gang arrived, they wouldn’t see the car and think anything was amiss—like that Tomlinson was dead inside. They’d start the fire, and by morning, his grip on them would be even tighter.

  • • •

  Monday, September 20, 8:57 p.m.

  “I’m in.” Eric was hunched over his laptop, staring at Tomlinson’s company server.

  “About time,” was all Albert said, his gaze glued to the television set. He’d been watching the news to get a feel for where the cops were on the condo investigation.

  Eric let Albert’s words roll off his back. He couldn’t worry about the two of them right now. He had to figure out how to get past the alarm or there would be no “them” to worry about. It had taken a lot longer than he’d expected to break into Tomlinson’s server, but he was nervous and not thinking, which explained most of the delay.

  Opening a folder labeled “Maintenance,” he nodded. “The alarm’s an old design. The documentation here is from a system they bought ten years ago.”

  Albert’s jaw clenched. “I don’t care about the make and model. Can you turn it off?”

  “Yeah. It’ll be easy. I just have to—”

  Albert held up his hand. “Shh. It’s nine.”

  On the television, the anchor looked grim. “Good evening. We have an update on the fire that destroyed the lakefront condo last night. Police have identified the female victim as Tracey Mullen. Tracey was just sixteen years old.” The screen split, a photo of a pretty young girl with big brown eyes appearing next to the anchor’s face.

  Eric’s stomach turned inside out and he was glad he’d eaten nothing for hours. Tracey Mullen. He stared at the face on the screen, but what he saw was her face pressed against the glass, her mouth open on the scream that echoed in his mind. Next to him, Albert had tensed and Eric wondered if the guilt was eating him like acid, too.

  The screen changed to a video of a woman with bright red-orange hair wearing a jacket with SAR printed on the back and holding the leash of a German Shepherd. The woman and the dog entered the burned-out condo while three others looked on—a blond woman, a dark-haired man, and a tall guy wearing a fedora. Hat Squad, Eric thought. The guy with the hat was a homicide detective.

  “This was the scene this afternoon as a cadaver dog searched for additional remains in the building,” the anchor’s voice said. “Fortunately, they found none.”

  Eric released a breath. At least they’d killed no one else. The girl was a tragedy, but she shouldn’t have been there to begin with.

  The video changed abruptly, now grainy and far away. “News 8 has obtained this video, taken with a bystander’s cell phone. You’re looking at the cadaver dog, who, after searching the burned building, continued tracking on the other side of the property, ending up at this stretch of beach. Police captain Bruce Abbott had no comment as to the relevance of the dog’s find on the ongoing investigation.”

  The anchor reappeared. “In other news, a fatal car accident claimed the life of Joel Fischer early this morning. Joel’s car ran off the road between his home and the university, where he was a prelaw student. No one else was injured. Funeral services will be tomorrow afternoon….”

  “The dog found where the blackmailer left after killing that guard,” Albert said coldly.

  “But they’ll still think it was us,” Eric said, fear in his voice.

  “They don’t know about us. Yet. We need to make sure they don’t find out.”

  • • •

  Monday, September 20, 9:02 p.m.

  Olivia rubbed her hands over her arms briskly. She was partly cold, partly nervous. Mostly nervous, she admitted. She stood in the cabin’s living room, which was dominated by a wooden table covered in linen, candles, and china. The man knew how to set a nice table. And he planned to cook for her.

  And then what? Nothing, she decided firmly. Nothing, until I get some answers.

  He’d been “paying attention.” Watching me.

  She caught a flash of white from the corner of her eye and turned to follow it. It was his shirt, she realized, thrown from the bathroom into a waiting basket. Which meant that right now, the man was half naked. Olivia drew a breath, her arms no longer cold. None of her was cold. She knew what he looked like half naked.

  She knew what he looked like all the way naked. Therein lay the problem. The water started to run and Olivia started to walk, her feet having a mind of their own, stopping in the open bathroom doorway.

  He was washing up in the sink, his head bent to the water. He still wore his trousers and she told herself that was a good thing. Otherwise, she would have had serious trouble keeping her resolve. Must have answers before… well, just before.

  She leaned against the doorframe undetected and simply watched him. If anything, he looked better than he had that night, stronger, muscles more defined… just better, which really wasn’t fair. At the moment though, she found it hard to complain.

  The dark hair at his nape was wet and curled just a little, and her fingers itched to reach out and touch, but she silently stayed where she stood. He still hadn’t seen her. Razor in hand, he lifted his eyes to the mirror, then froze, watching her reflection. When she said nothing, he straightened and started to shave, meeting her eyes in the mirror every time he rinsed his blade.

  It was an intimate thing, watching a man shave. She’d watched Doug shave, all the months they’d been engaged. She’d missed this, the intimacy. She missed the sex, too, but the intimacy most of all. That sense of belonging to someone, that he belonged only to her. She’d thought she’d had that with Doug, but had painfully learned she had not.

  She drew a breath, steadying herself. She wouldn’t have it here either. David Hunter would never belong to her. She knew that. She wondered if he knew it, too.

  As she watched his muscles move, his eyes meet hers, and she felt everything inside her go liquid and needy… she wondered if belonging, the exclusivity of it, even mattered. Too soon he was finished with the blade. But he didn’t turn, still watching her in the mirror.

  “Why have you watched me?” she asked huskily.

  His throat moved as he swallowed hard. “I needed to be sure you were all right. You were working that case… all those bodies coming out of the pit. You were pale and stressed. Evie said you weren’t sleeping. Not eating. I worried.”

  She lifted her chin. “So if you were so worried, then why didn’t you call?”

  He turned then and the room seemed a whole lot smaller and the air seemed a whole lot thinner. His silver gaze
was piercing, yet uncertain.

  “Well?” she pressed and had only a second to prepare before he stepped forward and slid his fingers into her hair, lifting her face.

  “I’m sorry. I need to know,” he said harshly, and then she couldn’t breathe at all. His mouth was on hers and it was exactly the same. Exactly as she remembered. Hot and necessary. All the reasons that she shouldn’t kiss him back vanished like mist as she stood on her toes, her palms flat against his chest, touching all that bare skin and hard muscle. Mine. For this second, mine. Then her arms were around his neck, winding tight, pulling herself higher. Closer.

  He made a sound deep in his throat, rough. Needy. One hand tightened in her hair and the other roved her back and sides impatiently as he deepened the kiss and she remembered how it felt. His mouth on her. His hands on her. God, the man had amazing hands. Touch me. She wanted to scream it, but there was no air. Her dress fluttered against the back of her legs as he grabbed a handful of fabric at her hip and twisted it in his fist. Visions of him ripping her dress over her head taunted. Tempted.

  Just like last time.

  He pulled away abruptly, his chest swelling as his breath beat hard and fast against her hair. But although his grip gentled, he didn’t let go. His one hand cradled the back of her head, pulling her cheek against his bare skin. The other hand splayed firmly against her lower back, as if he’d keep her from bolting.

  Just like last time.

  She eased from her toes, her hands sliding down his skin, finding a natural resting place on his back. And she held on, because she needed to. If she pushed away, he’d let her go, but she didn’t. Couldn’t. He rested his cheek on the top of her head.

  “It was real,” he murmured, sending a shiver down her spine. “I didn’t imagine it.”

  She thought of how she’d left him, sprawled in his own bed, snoring softly. He’d had way too much champagne at Mia’s wedding while she had been one hundred percent sober. For long months she’d wondered what he’d remembered. If he remembered what they’d done. What he’d said.

  “It depends,” she said cautiously, “on what you think you imagined.”

  “I remember Friday,” he said quietly. “Everything about Friday. Saturday, not so much.” Friday had been Mia’s rehearsal dinner. The first time she’d seen him. Saturday had been the wedding, and Saturday night… Well, that’s why she was here.

  His fingers began moving against her scalp, gentle circles that made her eyes drift closed. “I was sitting on the steps of the church,” he said, “dreading going in.”

  “Another wedding you’d leave alone,” she murmured.

  He stiffened, his fingers going still. “I told you that?”

  “Saturday night, after the reception. After a couple glasses of champagne you told me… quite a lot. I wondered how it could be true. How a man who looked like you could possibly be alone.”

  “It’s just a face, Olivia.”

  She leaned back to look up at him, at the face that made women everywhere swoon. His gray eyes were sad. And alone.

  She ran her fingertips over his jaw, felt it twitch, and realized how tautly he held himself. “It wasn’t just your face. I kept thinking, he’s got to be mean, proud, stupid, something. I kept looking for a flaw, but never found one.”

  “I have a lot of flaws. Believe me.”

  She leaned against his chest again, her words defeated. “Not that I could see.”

  His fingers resumed their slow massage and she could feel herself melting against him. “You wore this dress at the rehearsal dinner. I was hoping that was a good sign.”

  “I wondered if you’d remember.”

  “Like I said, I remember everything about Friday. I was sitting on the steps and you almost fell into my lap.”

  She felt compelled to defend herself. “My heel hit a rock and I tripped.”

  “One more reason to be grateful for a woman in high heels,” he murmured. “You didn’t hear me complaining, did you?”

  “No.” He’d been sweet and funny, tending to the knee she’d skinned when she’d fallen. He’d helped her into a side entrance of the church, his arm around her as her heart cantered. Then he’d found her a chair, crouched at her feet, and tenderly cleaned the blood from her knee as she’d stared down into his face. Which was far from “just a face.” She’d been all but mesmerized. “You put a Little Mermaid Band-Aid on me.”

  “My niece, Grace, had skinned her elbow that afternoon.” He still sounded faintly embarrassed, charming her now as he had then. “I had them in my pocket.”

  “So you said.” As he’d looked up with a boyish, bashful grin. And that was the moment he had me. He never had to be smart or funny or thoughtful or polite. But he’d been all those things, too. He’d been perfect. “Friday was a nice night.” Perfect.

  “It was. I didn’t want it to end.” Neither of them had. After Mia’s rehearsal dinner, they’d ended up at Moe’s, a restaurant run by his friends, where they’d had pie and coffee and talked until the owners swept up around them and finally turned out the lights. “I don’t think I ever closed a restaurant down before.”

  “When Moe knew I was moving out here, he asked me to tell you hello.” He said nothing more for a long, long moment, still holding her. Then he sighed quietly. “Hello, Olivia. I should have said that months ago.”

  She pulled back, met his eyes, her own hardening. “Then why didn’t you? Why did you move here in the first place?”

  He didn’t blink. “Because of the next night. Saturday night.” He paused, his gaze unflinching, and her cheeks grew hot. “There’s a lot I don’t remember about that night after Mia’s wedding, Olivia, but I remember enough.”

  Her chin lifted a fraction. “Such as?”

  His eyes changed, shifted. “Like how you felt when I danced with you, holding you against me. How your bridesmaid dress dipped low in front.” He slid his hand from her hair, gently tracing the edge of her bra through the thin dress she wore, sending current charging all over her skin. “How I wanted to know what you looked like without it.”

  He dipped his head, brushing his lips over the curve of her shoulder, his fingertips teasing the fullness of her breast. “But somehow,” he whispered, “I know how you look without it. I shouldn’t. But I do, don’t I?”

  She was trembling now. You have to make him stop. But she couldn’t. Didn’t want to. “Yes.” It was barely audible, but from the sharp intake of his breath, she knew he’d heard. Touch me, she wanted to plead, but once more there was no air in her lungs.

  Abruptly he slid both hands down, covering her butt. Her whimper of relief was muffled as he took her mouth again, hot and demanding. A shudder shook him and he tore his lips away.

  “God. I remember how you felt in my hands,” he muttered, kneading her flesh and she lifted on her toes, up into him. He was already hard.

  She knew how it felt to press against that hard ridge, to feel it throb against her. She needed to feel it again. Now. She made a frustrated noise and he finally lifted her, pressing her into the door frame, his body hard between her thighs.

  Almost, but not nearly enough. Just like last time. She rocked against him and heard him utter an oath, then his hands found the bare skin of her legs, trembling as they caressed.

  Unsteadily, he feathered kisses up the side of her neck to her ear. “I remember how you taste, Olivia.” It was a harsh whisper, wringing a moan from her lips. He ground into her and her head lolled against the door frame as she let the memories in. This. This is what she’d craved, all those months. All those months he’d stayed away. “Don’t I?” He kissed her neck, hard. “Do I know how you taste?”

  She nodded, every muscle clenching.

  “And I know how you sound when you come.”

  “Yes.” The word was nearly a sob.

  “And then…” He was breathing hard, his fingers digging into her inner thighs, pulling her wider, rocking up into her, so close that if it weren’t for their layers of clothi
ng, he’d be inside her. She met each thrust, so damn close. Almost there, just from a few whispered words and the thrust of his hips.

  She swallowed hard. “What?” she whispered, her voice raspy. Desperate.

  “Your mouth… I can still feel your mouth on me. Hot and wet.” He shuddered. “I wasn’t sure if I’d dreamed it. Tell me I didn’t dream it.”

  “You didn’t.” The memory hit her hard and she jerked her face away from him. Stop this now. “Why?” she asked roughly. “Why didn’t you call? If you remember all of it, why have you stayed away all this time?”

  His hips stilled. “I woke the next morning with a hell of a hangover. Alone. The last clear memory I had was the reception, drinking champagne. Dancing with you. Then I woke up in my bed.” He swallowed. “Naked. I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten home. What was reality and what I’d fantasized. Then I smelled you on my pillow.” He turned his face into her hair. “I knew you’d been there. You’d gone without a good-bye or a note.”

  He lifted her head and she opened her eyes. His gaze was intense. She saw confusion swirling there, and hurt. And something else she couldn’t define.

  “Why did you leave?” he asked urgently. “I need to know.”

  “Let me down.” Instantly he did. Her knees were weak, but her feet were solidly on the floor, where I should have kept them all along. She wanted to look away, but forced her eyes to remain on his face. “When I… when I came,” she said, “what did I say?”

  He frowned slightly. “My name. Why?” His frown deepened, his eyes narrowing when she said no more. “Why? What did I say?”

  She drew a breath. She’d never done a one-night stand in her life before David Hunter, not that he’d believe it. And rarely had she done that, even with men she’d known for years, but… God. She’d been caught up in some kind of evil genie spell, because not to take him into her mouth had never entered her mind. His body had bucked and bowed and he’d been so goddamn… beautiful. Then he’d thrown his head back, clenched his teeth and… said the word that had said it all.