Jaxson's Song

by Angie West

  “Oh, right. Brandon.”

  “As far as I know, she hasn’t dated anyone in months.”

  “Apparently we were wrong on that score…”

  “Looks like.” She tapped a fingernail on the smooth surface of the kitchen counter and finally spied her purse draped over the back of a chair. “Between you and me, I’m already having fantasies of taking this Chad guy apart.”

  “I’ll help you,” Lindsey said darkly. “So, we know exactly nothing about him?”

  “Zip. Nada.” She sighed and looped her purse strap around her fist, and wished like hell that Lilly’s “husband” was standing in front of her, preferably with his hands tied behind his back.

  “What kind of man elopes like that, with an eighteen-year-old girl? Oh Lord…she’s pregnant. Oh Kate, tell me she’s not pregnant.”

  “She says she’s not.”

  “Well…what are we going to do?”

  “She wants me to go to Reno with them.”

  “She does?” Apprehension was clear in Lindsey’s voice. “Well, that’s good. But what about the house? And your job? I take it Lilly has dropped out of school.”

  Kate’s head began to pulse, the pain settling into a dull, throbbing ache. “I’m calling the realtor tomorrow, right after I give my two-week notice at the hospital,” she said, and for the sake of her own sanity, she steadfastly refused to think about words like “sister” and “college” in the same sentence.

  “Okay,” Lindsey said after a moment. “I’ll put in my two-weeks, too. How many boxes will we need to pack the house, you think? Ten medium and five or six small?”

  “I can’t let you do that,” Kate said gently, not surprised in the least at her best friend’s declaration of loyalty. “I’ll be fine. I just—”

  “Well, Kate, I don’t remember asking your permission. You’ll need a roomie, won’t you? Unless you’re planning to bunk with Lilly and Chad.” Like Kate, Lindsey put an ugly inflection into her tone when she said his name.

  “Yeah, right,” Kate snorted. “But that doesn’t mean you’re uprooting your entire life for me.”

  “For you and Lilly. And if you’ll remember, I didn’t want to stay in Georgia without you guys, to begin with.”

  “Your whole life is in Georgia.”

  “So…more than six small boxes?”

  “No, six is fine.” She shook her head. “But you’re only allowed to help pack. That’s it, Linds.”

  “Sure, whatever you say, Kate. So, tomorrow you’re calling a realtor. What are you going to do tonight?”

  “Tonight?” Kate pulled the front door shut behind her and headed toward her car, sparing only a cursory glance at the next wave of storm clouds gathering over the rooftops in the distance. “Tonight, I’m getting wasted.”

  “I don’t blame you. Text me later, then?”

  “Will do,” Kate said, clicking off, and tossing the phone into the passenger seat as she pulled her seat belt over her lap and snapped it into place. The dash clock read 2:45.

  Kate shrugged. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

  * * *

  Jaxson stood on the porch in shorts, a sequined teal tank top, and a pair of the most ridiculous flip-flops he had ever seen. He’d scowled when Jake had shown up earlier in the day, bearing a plastic Walmart sack full of taupe hosiery and the gaudy footwear. The large plastic sunflower on the top of each sandal practically obscured his entire foot, and the flip-flops themselves were made of some kind of hard, clear, glittery green gel-looking stuff. Then again, after a weekend of G-strings and heels, overblown hair and wig caps that itched like hell, what were a couple of plastic sunflowers?

  His gaze strayed, again, to the house next door. Kate’s car sat in the driveway and hadn’t moved since three thirty that afternoon. Not that he’d been paying attention. Not that he cared about her comings and goings. The way she slammed her car door made it impossible not to notice her arrival. That was all. Earlier, around five, when he and Jake had been in the dining room, sharing a pizza and splitting a six-pack, he’d heard music coming from her house. Something loud and pulsing that wasn’t unlike the crap they played at the club. Kate’s house had been quiet for several hours now…

  He squinted through the gloom and the lingering clouds that all afternoon had threatened rain but hadn’t delivered. A faint amber glow shone through the curtains at damn near every first floor window, but he couldn’t make out anything of the rooms inside.

  Jake’s boot heels thudded across the porch and Jaxson turned in time to see his uncle sling an overnight bag across one shoulder and take the porch steps two at a time. Jake was pushing sixty, but the man’s easy gait still belied his age.

  “When are you coming back?” he asked, forcibly tearing his gaze from his neighbor’s house.

  “Gonna miss me, are ya, boy?”

  Jaxson snorted.

  His uncle sobered. “I’m only spending a couple of days with your aunt. Three at the most. If you have any problems…”

  “I won’t.”

  Jake was visibly skeptical. Again, Jaxson’s attention strayed to Kate’s porch, where a shape shifted and moved in the darkness. His fists clenched and he started forward only to be brought up short an instant later when it was Kate’s cat that materialized from the shadowy far corner of the porch and not some intruder.

  Jake raised a brow at glanced from his nephew to the cat.

  “My neighbor had a break-in last night. I thought I saw something over there. It was just the cat.”

  Jake tossed his duffel into the back seat of the Buick before walking back to Jaxson and leaning in close. “I mean it, Jax. Watch your ass.” He lowered his voice. “Word is, our guy’s finally taken an interest in you.”

  “Yeah?” Jaxson grunted, trying to appear nonchalant, but inside, his senses were piqued and instantly at full-alert.

  “Undercovers tailed him here last night. He followed you home, circled the block twice after you’d gone in. Keep your eyes and ears open, boy. He could make a move at any time.”

  Jaxson’s pulse rate kicked up as adrenaline surged through his body. “What makes you so sure he’ll make a move?”

  “Oh, he’ll come after you all right. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Jaxson shrugged. “Have a good trip.”

  “Damn it, boy—”

  “I’ll be careful. Happy?”

  “Hell, no.” Jake shook his head. “But it’ll have to do. I’ll see you on Friday. Don’t forget what I said. You’ve got security, but they can only move in so close right now, without blowing cover. I won’t bullshit you, Jaxson; you aren’t well-protected. That’s why the GPS is so important—”

  “I’ve got it on me at all times.” Jaxson patted the pocket of his shorts. “If the bastard comes for me, I’ll be ready.”

  Jake nodded reluctantly and moved away from his nephew to climb into the car. The door creaked shut with a groan of protest and Jaxson watched his uncle fire up the engine and back to the end of the drive. Jake idled and rolled down the driver’s side window to lean out and deliver a final warning.

  “It’s not ‘if’, but ‘when.’”

  His steely cop-eyes studied his nephew one last time and then he was gone, leaving behind a cloud of exhaust that rapidly dissipated into the muggy Florida night.

  A mosquito landed on Jaxson’s left shoulder and he felt the slight sting even as he slapped the insect away. Jesus, but he was getting sick and damn tired of the bugs in this godforsaken hell pit.

  He walked back to his covered porch and the dubious protection of the Citronella candle that burned on the white lacquer-and-glass table. He could have taken a seat at one of the two wide, white wicker chairs that framed the round table, but instead, he opted to stand. His gaze roamed over Kate’s house as he considered his uncle’s words. Klein would come after him. A part of Jaxson, the cynical part, wasn’t so sure it would be that easy. The bad guy comes after the bait, falls for the carefully laid trap, the cops s
woop in to save the day, another pervert off the streets, everybody goes home happy.

  His eyes narrowed as he thought of Roger Klein. The logical side of Jaxson’s brain told him Jake was probably right. Jaxson hadn’t just been dangled under Klein’s nose; he’d been painstakingly molded to play the part. In fact, the level of preparation had been nothing short of eerie. Jake and some FBI agent whose name he couldn’t remember now, had grilled and quizzed him on every aspect of the three known victims in the case, until Jaxson felt like he’d personally known the dead women.

  He knew that Shannon Blythe had been a nurse, that Allie Kolhom’s mouth had curved up at one corner when she smiled. He knew that Tanner Reid had been in the habit of throwing her head back whenever she laughed. Jaxson had spent so many hours studying the women’s photographs and files… Files filled with detailed notes generated from countless interviews with the victims’ friends and families, that he was left feeling a little surprised that none of the dead women had tried to make their presence known to him. Then again, why would they? He frowned and turned his back on Kate’s house. They really weren’t his concern. Shannon, Allie, and Tanner, they had nothing to do with him, or he to them. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do for them, anyway, even if he had been so inclined.

  At the end of the day, they were still dead…and he was still an ex-con. His lips curled into a self-depreciating expression of mockery. Oh, he would be ready if—when—Roger Klein came calling, but only because it was in his best interest to help take the bastard out of commission. Not because he was some good guy out to avenge the women, but because he had made a piss-poor decision in doing business with the man, and now it was time to pay for his error in judgment; one in a series of many. Then, if he lived through this, and if he managed to avoid prison, maybe he would turn over a new leaf. Make an honest living, do the “right” thing, for a change. Whatever the fuck that even was. But he guessed that abandoning his illegal gambling ring and giving up the money laundering business would be a good place to start. Hell, Jaxson snorted, done and done. He’d started his career as a bookie—no, that wasn’t quite right—technically he’d started out as an accountant. He’d done some work for different firms, and he’d made a half-decent living, nothing extravagant, but it had been adequate. Then he’d taken up with a firm in Brooklyn, worked long hours, busted his ass, and soon after, he’d been handed what he thought at the time was the account of a lifetime.

  Tony was a long-term client who ran several successful businesses—and always kept an extra set of books. He had connections. Soon, Jaxson had connections too. He handled some business for Tony for five years, eventually branching out on his own, and dipping his hand into a couple of lucrative side ventures. Then he’d met Roger Klein, and agreed to help the man funnel some money from a club Roger owned in Florida. But the club was just a front for the man’s real money maker: women. Blonde women. Sometimes he sold them; but the FBI believed that, more often than not, he killed them. The authorities were continually collecting evidence and building their case against the Florida club owner, but the widely held belief was that Shannon Blythe, Allie Kolhom, and Tanner Reid were just the tip of the iceberg.

  One woman, Jaxson was never told her name, had been sold rather than killed, and had managed to escape from the east Georgia house where she had been held, and was able to point the finger at Roger Klein as the man who’d kidnapped her, abused her, then sold her. Weeks later, Jaxson had been arrested—again—and brought up on charges of racketeering. Again. Only this time the FBI was brought in, and they wanted to know about Roger Klein and shit like kidnapping, and the murder of three blonde women. Shit he didn’t go in for, knew nothing about. And now here he was. Bait for some fucking pervert serial killer. Jaxson scowled. Just let Roger Klein come after him. The prick.

  He extinguished the Citronella candle and turned to go inside.

  The voices stopped him in his tracks. Whispers at first, soft but insistent, they grew in volume as Jaxson’s tension worked its way through his shoulders. Snatches of words were carried through the balmy night air, bits and pieces and impressions that he knew from experience no one but he himself could hear. Most of the words overlapped one another and made no sense. But a few, he was able to pick out. Mirrors. Hate. Rage.

  Stop me… Stop me… Stop me.

  A chill raced across his skin, a cool breeze in an otherwise hot, sticky night. Like a beacon calling him through the darkness, he turned toward the house next door, his gaze narrowing as he stared at the place. Kate’s place.

  A light shone from one of the second floor windows that faced his own house. Jaxson walked to the end of his porch and watched in grim silence as the curtains parted, watched as a blonde woman was suddenly there, staring down impassively at him. She wore a white sundress, and her hair was smoothed carefully over one shoulder. The other shoulder revealed the thin strap of her dress on an otherwise bare, tan shoulder. She was young. She looked like Kate.

  She was see-through.

  He’d suspected as much when he’d seen her at the window earlier, but hadn’t been sure. Then, he’d assumed it was Kate’s sister. Now, he could clearly see a dark, mahogany dresser through her entire midsection.

  Jaxson’s hands gripped the porch rail as he locked eyes with the woman. She looked angry, and in the next instant, her head turned, as if she were staring at some point behind her insubstantial body. When she turned back to the window, the smile she gave Jaxson was tight…cruel.

  A second later, she was gone. A few moments after that, the light winked out. The whispers had subsided; crickets and the occasional swish of tires over pavement from the main road once again filled the night around him.

  “Fuck.” Jaxson hung his head. He had to go see if—no. No, he didn’t. He had to turn around and march his ass back into his own house. Kate wasn’t his problem. So her house was haunted. So what? He’d already known that yesterday. And anyway, lots of places were haunted.

  What had just happened, though, was…different. Unease pooled in his gut and he swore again, hands on his hips as he studied Kate’s house. The next thing he knew, he was clomping down the stairs, green-gel sandals awkwardly crossing the patch of lawn that separated the two properties.

  “Might as well get it over with and check on her now. If I don’t, she’ll just be banging on my door again in the middle of the night,” he muttered under his breath as he jogged up her porch steps. The worn boards creaked a protest under his weight as he strode across them to her front door.

  Chapter Twelve

  Glass House

  The bottle of wine tipped precariously close to the rug as Kate went for another swig, decided propping herself to a sitting position was way too much effort, and set it down with a thunk. It connected with the coffee table, wobbled for half a second before righting itself. Kate flopped back against the floor and stared up at the crystal chandelier. Somebody ought to dust that thing…

  She ought to dust that thing. Yeah, that’s it. She would dust. Where had Aunt Viola kept the furniture polish? Kate began to giggle. What was she thinking? Aunt Viola didn’t have furniture polish. She squinted through her lashes at the thick layer of gray fuzz that clung to the chandelier. Clearly this was a polish-free house.

  “Oh, well.” She gestured with one half-limp arm. “Who’s gonna see it all the way up there, anyway?” Then she frowned as another thought occurred to her. “Hey, wait—I’m selling the house.” She laughed. “It’s not my problem anymore. Let the next person deal with it. Bon voyage!” she sang out loftily.

  A chill caressed the side of her face, raced along the bare arm closest to the table, invisible fingers that were gentle but left ice in their wake. Kate shivered, and even in her inebriated state she registered the sudden drop in temperature.

  “What…” She froze, gripped by the sense that the air surrounding her was suddenly too thick, too quiet. Her breath misted in front of her face and she blinked, but in the next instant the temperature rose.
The room was back to normal, so quickly that Kate was sure she must have imagined the entire thing. Her eyes swung first left, then right.

  From her vantage point on the floor, all she could see of the immediate vicinity was the living room’s gold-and-eggplant Fleur-de-lis patterned sofa and the two matching chairs. The legs of the three round, knick-knack-covered tables were ornately carved. She reached out one finger and traced it along the scarred wood of the coffee table; this close, it was easy to spot the small pits and grooves in the dark mahogany wood. The braided rug beneath her back was threadbare and scratchy where it brushed against the skin left bare by her tank-top.

  The clock chimed nine times and Kate jumped, startled out of her slow perusal of the furniture, and the dust motes that drifted down to swirl around her face. What? Her eyes flashed to the ceiling above her head. The fragile-looking glass teardrops were swaying gently back and forth, just enough to dislodge some of the dust on the surface and send it fluttering down in minuscule tufts.

  Kate rubbed at her face as a thin rope of dust landed beneath her nose. When her gaze returned to the light fixture high above her head, she frowned. It wasn’t moving now.

  “Wow…yeah, time to call it a night,” she said under her breath.

  The room tilted and spun as she rose, using various parts of the coffee table to anchor her swaying body and assist her on the way up. First she gripped the solid pine legs, then slid one cautious hand to the upper rungs of the table. Finally, on her knees now, she gripped the top and sides of the—thankfully heavy—piece of furniture, and climbed unsteadily to her feet.

  “Gotta get my sea legs,” she muttered, arms akimbo as the room dipped and swayed around her. The blood rushed to her head, and with it, a terrible pounding. But she continued on, reaching out to snag the bottle of wine.

  The pounding in her head subsided, and Kate concentrated on putting one bare foot in front of the other, determined to make it to the stairs. Past the entryway and down the hall she wobbled, a woman on a mission—to stay upright. Gollum—as she’d chosen to call him—wove in and out around her ankles, his ploy for attention nearly tripping her as she poured all her concentration into making it up the stairs. The bottle tipped forward as she stumbled, its contents sloshing over the narrow rim and raining down onto the cat.