by Nora Roberts
concerned by the trembling. “It’s all right. Who was he?”
“I don’t know. He was just there. He talked to me. Didn’t you hear?”
“No, I didn’t hear anything.”
“He was almost whispering. That’s why. He didn’t want you to hear him. But he was there.” Her fingers gripped Kirby’s like a vise, the panic beating like bat wings in her stomach. “I swear he was right over there.”
“I believe you, honey, why wouldn’t I?”
“Because he’s gone, and ...” She trailed off, rocked herself for a moment to regain her balance. “I don’t know. Christ, I’m a mess. It was dark, he startled me. I couldn’t see his face.” She blew out a breath, dragged her hair back with both hands. “He creeped me out, I guess.”
“It’s no big deal. I got spooked in the woods today walking to Sanctuary. Ran like a rabbit.”
Jo let out a little laugh, scrubbed her clammy palms dry on the thighs of her jeans. “Really?”
“Jumped gibbering into Brian’s arms. Made him feel big and male enough to kiss me, though, so it wasn’t a complete loss.”
Jo sniffled, grateful that she could feel her legs solidly under her again. “So, how was it?”
“Terrific. I believe I’ll definitely give him another chance.” She gave Jo’s hand a squeeze. “Okay now?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“No problem. Spooky place.” Her grin flashed. “Let’s sneak back and scare the hell out of Lex and Ginny.”
AS they started off, hands linked, he watched them from the shadows. He smiled to himself, enjoying the music of quiet female voices drifting away. It was best, he realized, that she had come with the other one. He might have felt compelled to move to the next stage if Jo Ellen had wandered so neatly into him alone.
And he wasn’t ready, not nearly ready, to move from anticipation to reality. There was still so much to prepare, so much to enjoy.
But, oh, how he wanted her. To taste that sexy, top-heavy mouth, to spread those long thighs, to close his hands around that pretty white throat.
He closed his eyes and let the image of it roll through his brain. The frozen image of Annabelle, so still and so perfect, shifted into hot life and became his. Became Jo.
A portion of the journal he carried with him played through his head.
Murder fascinates us all. Some would deny it, but they are liars. Man is helplessly drawn to the mirror of his own mortality. Animals kill to survive—for food, for territory, for sex. Nature kills without emotion.
But man also kills for pleasure. It has always been so. We alone among the animals know that the taking of a life is the essence of control and power.
Soon I’ll experience the perfection of that. And capture it. My own immortality.
He shuddered in pleasure.
Anticipation, he mused as he turned on his light again to guide his way. Yes, he was a huge fan of anticipation.
NINE
THE cheerful whistling woke Nathan. As he drifted in that nether-world just under full consciousness, he dreamed of a bird chirping happily on the near branch of the maple tree outside his window. There had been one in his youth, a mockingbird that sang its morning song every day for a full summer, greeting him so reliably that he had named it Bud.
Hazy, hot days filled with the important business of bike riding and ball playing and Popsicle licking.
The insistent wake-up call caused Nathan to greet every morning with a grin and a quick salute to Bud. He’d been devastated when Bud deserted him in late August, but Nathan’s mother said that Bud had probably gone off early for his winter vacation.
Nathan rolled over and thought how odd it was that Bud should know how to whistle “Ring of Fire.” In the half dream the bird hopped onto the windowsill, a cartoon bird now, a Disney character with sleek black feathers and Johnny Cash’s weathered, been-there-done-that face.
When the bird began executing some sharp choreography that included high kicks and fancy spins, Nathan jerked himself awake. He stared at the window, half expecting to see a richly animated cartoon extravaganza.
“Jesus.” He ran his hands over his face. “No more canned chili at midnight, Delaney.”
He rolled over facedown on the pillow. Then he realized that while the bird wasn’t there, the whistling was.
Grunting, he crawled out of bed and stepped into the cutoffs he’d stepped out of the night before. Brain bleary, he blinked at the clock, winced, then stumbled out of the room to find out who the hell was so cheerful at six-fifteen.
He followed the whistling—it was “San Antonio Rose” now—out the screened porch, down the steps. A shiny red pickup was parked behind his Jeep in the short drive. Its owner was under the house, standing on a stepladder and doing something to the ductwork while whistling his heart out. The ropy muscles rippling outside and under the thin blue T-shirt had Nathan readjusting his thoughts of quick murder.
Maybe he could take Whistling Boy, he considered. They looked to be close to the same height. He couldn’t see the face, but the gimme cap, the snug jeans, and scruffy work boots said youth to Nathan.
He’d think about killing him after coffee, he decided.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Whistling Boy turned his head, shot a quick, cheerful grin from under the bill of his cap. “Morning. You got some leaks here. Gotta get it up and running right before AC weather hits.”
“You’re air-conditioning repair?”
“Hell, I’m everything repair.” He stepped off the ladder, swiping a hand clean on the seat of his jeans before holding it out to Nathan. “I’m Giff Verdon. I fix anything.”
Nathan studied the friendly brown eyes, the crooked incisor, dimples, the shaggy mess of sun-streaked hair spilling out of the cap, and gave up. “You fix coffee? Decent coffee?”
“You got the makings, I can fix it.”
“They got some sort of cone thing with a ...” Nathan illustrated vaguely with his hands. “Pot.”
“Drip coffee. That’s the best. You look like you could use some, Mr. Delaney.”
“Nathan. I’ll give you a hundred dollars for a real pot of coffee.”
Giff gave a chuckling laugh, slapped Nathan smartly on the back. “You need it that bad, it’s free. Let’s go fix you up.”
“You always start work at dawn?” Nathan asked as he shuffled up the steps behind Giff.
“Get an early start, you enjoy more of the day.” He headed directly to the stove, filled the kettle at the sink. “Got any filters?”
“No.”
“Well, we’ll jury-rig her, then.” Giff tore off some paper towels, folded them cleverly, and slipped them into the plastic cone. “You’re an architect, right?”
“Yeah.”
Nathan ran his tongue over his teeth, thought fleetingly about brushing them. After coffee. Worlds could be conquered, oceans could be crossed, women could be seduced. After coffee. Life would be worth living again. After coffee.
“I used to think I’d be one.”
“Used to think you’d be one what?” Nathan prompted as Giff dug into the cabinet over the stove for coffee.
“An architect. I could always see these places in my head, houses mostly, windows, rooflines, shades of brick and siding. Right down to the fancy work.” Giff scooped coffee out of the can and into the cone with the careless precision of habit. “I could even walk myself inside, go through the layout. Sometimes I’d shift things around. That stairway doesn’t belong over there, it’s better over here.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Well, I could never afford the schooling or the time to go off and study, so I build instead.”
In anticipation, Nate got out two mugs. “You’re a builder?”
“Well, now, I don’t know if I’d say that. Nothing that fancy, really. I do add-ons, fix things up.” He patted the tool belt cocked with gunslinger swagger on his hip. “Swing a hammer. Always something needs to be done around here, so I ke
ep busy. Maybe one of these days I’ll take one of the houses in my head and build it from the ground up.”
Nathan leaned back against the counter and tried not to drool as Giff poured boiling water into the cone. “Have you done any work at Sanctuary?”
“Sure. This and that. I worked on the crew that remodeled the kitchen for Brian over there. Miz Pendleton’s got in her mind to add on a little bathhouse. A solarium, like. Something where she can put a Jacuzzi tub and maybe an exercise room. People look for that kind of thing now when they’re on vacation. I’m putting together a design for her.”
“The south side,” Nathan said to himself. “The light would be right, and it could be worked right into the gardens.”
“Yep, just what I was figuring.” Giff’s smile widened. “I guess I’m on the right track there if you thought the same.”
“I’d like to see your drawings for it.”
“Yeah?” Surprise and pleasure zipped through him. “Great. I’ll bring them by sometime when I got them a little more complete. Better payment than a hundred bucks for the coffee. Drip takes time,” he added, noting the way Nathan was eyeing the slowly filling pot. “The best things do.”
When Nathan was in the shower, sipping his second cup while hot water pounded the back of his neck, he had to agree that Giff was right. Some things were worth the wait. His mind was clear again, his system all but singing with caffeine. By the time he was dressed and had downed cup number three, he was primed for the hike to Sanctuary and set for an enormous breakfast.
Both the pickup and Giff were gone when Nathan walked down the steps again. Off to fix up something else, Nathan decided. He knew Giff had been amused when he’d asked him to write down the instructions for brewing drip coffee, step by step. But Nathan dealt better with a clear outline.
He caught himself whistling “I Walk the Line.” Back to Johnny Cash, he thought, with a shake of his head. And he didn’t even like country music.
When he stepped into the forest, dim and green, he deliberately slowed his steps and followed the gentle bend of the river under the arching sway of limbs and moss. Because it always struck him as entering a church, he stopped whistling.
A flutter of color caught his eye, and he stopped to watch a sunny yellow butterfly flit along the path. To the left, the lances of palmettos, tangled vines, and twisted trunks formed a wall that reached up and up, giving him glimpses of scarlet from the flowering vine, snatches of vivid blue sky through the forks of branches.
Though it was a detour, he kept to the river path a bit longer, knowing that the water would widen and lead him deeper into the cool stillness.
Then he saw her, crouched beside a fallen log. Her baggy jacket was pushed up past her elbows, her hair was pulled back into a stubby tail. She had one knee on the damp ground, the other foot planted for balance.
He couldn’t have said why he found that so attractive. Why he found her so ... interesting.
But he stayed where he was, and remained silent, watching Jo set up her shot.
He thought he knew what she was after. The play of light on the water, the shadows of trees on the dark surface, the faint breath of mist just fading. A small, intimate miracle. And the way the river curved, just beyond, Nathan thought. The way it disappeared around that bend where the grass was high and wet and the trees thick made one wonder what could be seen, if you only walked on.
When he saw the doe step out to the left, he stepped forward quietly and crouched behind her. She jolted when he laid a hand on her shoulder, so he squeezed.
“Ssh. To the left,” he murmured near her ear. “Ten o’clock.”
Though her heart had leaped and pounded, Jo shifted the camera. When she focused on the doe, she took a steadying breath and waited.
She caught the doe, head lifted, scenting the air. Then again her shutter clicked as the deer scanned the river and looked across directly at the two humans, crouched and still. Her arms began to ache as seconds passed into minutes. But she didn’t move, unwilling to risk losing a shot. The reward came when the doe picked her way gracefully through the grass and the yearling slipped out of the trees and joined her at the verge to drink.
Light slanted down in dreamy white shafts that slid like liquid through the faint, swimming mist, and the deers’ tongues sent ripples spreading soft and slow over the dark water.
She would underexpose, just a bit, she thought, to accent that otherworldly aura rather than go for the crisp clarity of reality. The prints should look enchanted, with the faintest of fairy-tale blurs.
She didn’t lower her camera until she’d run out of film, and even then she remained silent, watching while the deer meandered downriver and around the bend.
“Thanks. I might have missed them.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
She turned her head, had to will herself not to jerk back. She hadn’t realized he was quite that close, or that his hand still made warm connection with her shoulder. “You move quietly, Nathan. I never heard you.”
“You were pretty absorbed. Did you get the shot you were working on before the deer?”
“We’ll see.”
“I’ve been taking some shots myself. Old hobby.”
“Natural that it would be. It’d be in your blood.”
He didn’t care for the sound of that and shook his head. “No, I don’t have a passion for it. Just an amateur’s interest. And a lot of equipment.”
She never knew whether it was easier to speak of such losses, or say nothing. So she said nothing.
“In any case,” he continued, “I’ve got all the professional equipment now, and a very minor skill.” He smiled at her. “Not like yours.”
“How do you know I have any skill when you haven’t seen my work?”
“Excellent question. I could say the opinion comes from watching you work just now. You have the patience, the silent grace, the stillness. Stillness is an attractive quality.”
“Maybe, but I’ve been still long enough.” She started to rise, but he shifted his hand from her shoulder to her elbow and drew her up with him. “I don’t want to keep you from your walk.”
“Jo Ellen, you keep brushing me off, I’m going to get a complex.” She looked more rested, he thought. There was a little color in her cheeks—but that could have been brought on by annoyance. He smiled and lifted the single-lens reflex camera that hung around her neck. “I’ve got this model.”
“Do you?” Remembering his upbringing, she stopped herself from tugging the camera away from him. “As I said, it would be hard for you not to have some interest in photography. Was your father disappointed that you didn’t follow in his f-steps?”
“No.” Nathan continued to study the Nikon, remembering his father patiently instructing him on aperture, field of vision. “My parents never wanted me to be anything but what I wanted to be. Anyway, Kyle made his living with a camera.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize.” Kyle was dead too, she remembered abruptly and, without thinking, touched a hand to Nathan’s. “Look, if it’s a tender spot, there’s no need to poke at it.”
“You can’t ignore it either.” Nathan shrugged his shoulders. “Kyle based himself in Europe—Milan, Paris, London. He did a lot of fashion photography.”
“It’s an art of its own.”
“Sure. And you take pictures of rivers.”
“Among other things.”
“I’d like to see.”
“Why?”
“We’ve just established that it’s an interest of mine.” He released her camera. “I’m going to spend more time on it while I’m here. And I’d like to see your work. Like you said, it’s ... connected to my father.”
It was the right tack to take. He could almost see her mind change from automatic refusal to agreement. “I brought some with me. You could take a look sometime, I suppose.”
“Good. How about now? I was heading over to Sanctuary anyway.”
