by Dana Marton
He drove the Altima to the parking lot of the twenty-four-hour grocery store on Route 1, switched to his other rental, an unmarked van, then drove that back to Murph Dolan’s girlfriend’s street.
He passed the two police cruisers in front of Betty Gardner’s house, the female officer snapping photos where Betty had smacked her head against the cement block, her skull breaking with a wet crack.
She’d been kind and sweet, a small-town fool to the end, utterly unsuspecting of the man who’d knocked on her door and said he was with the county, administering a program that helped senior citizens with home upkeep. Did she have any need? Why yes, she’d offered nothing but the most grateful smile, then walked out with him and around to show him where the siding needed repair.
He’d hoped she would invite him in and show him a leaky shower or an uneven bit of floor that was a tripping hazard. He would have preferred working in private. In the end, the narrow gap between two houses hadn’t been much worse. The tragic accident required only a few seconds.
Afterwards, he’d ducked into her home long enough to pull the key from the back door and drove straight to the hardware store. He’d made himself a copy, then returned the original before the body was even discovered.
Damn, he was efficient.
Katherine Concord—her friends called her Kate—bugged him. The more he watched her, the more he thought she looked familiar, reminded him of someone, a face he knew but couldn’t place.
He could have let Betty live and killed Kate, but he didn’t like unsolved riddles. First, he was going to figure out who Kate was, then he was going to kill her and her ex-cop boyfriend.
Asael wasn’t in Broslin for revenge, but he was here. He’d been thinking about an extended vacation for years, but now that he was on one, the idleness of it left him restless. His brain preferred to be busy, laser focused on planning and execution. He missed the adrenaline wave—the rise, the crest, the afterglow.
Betty had given him a moment, the sound of her skull cracking, then the first flash of red. But Betty hadn’t been enough to take off the edge for more than an hour or so. Asael craved a real hit.
As he reached the end of the street, Anthony Mauro, Kate’s other neighbor, shuffled around the corner. His face was ashen, drawn with grief. He looked a decade older than that morning, the last time Asael had seen him. Yet not stricken enough to stay the hell home instead of walking the neighborhood again with his cane and that painfully slow gait, the self-appointed neighborhood watch, that one. Asael despised people who couldn’t mind their own business.
The geezer had no idea how close he’d come to vacationing at the morgue right now instead of Betty.
Chances had been fifty-fifty on which neighbor Asael would eliminate. He wanted an outpost as close as possible to Kate’s place. The final decision had come down to Kate’s bedroom window facing Betty’s house.
One of those stupid quirks of fate, Asael thought as Tony Mauro looked right at him.
“Don’t be a fool, old man.” Or do.
But Tony Mauro turned, his attention on the three kids who burst from the garage across the street with a football.
Asael moved on, right at the intersection, toward the center of town. In his khaki pants and shirt, he was invisible behind the wheel of his nondescript white van. Now that everyone ordered everything from the internet, deliverymen like him—freelancers in unmarked vehicles—were so common, nobody noticed them.
Nobody would pay attention to him at the diner either. His makeup took off twenty years, putting him at late twenties. An average guy with slightly greasy brown hair and dull brown eyes. Someone who’d just moved back to his parents’ basement and made ends meet by running deliveries. Not so repulsive that they’d recall him for being the creepy dude who came in for lunch, yet not nearly attractive enough to draw the attention of the younger waitresses. There was a sweet spot he’d perfected where the eye just slid right on over him.
The cops would dick around for another hour, he figured. He had time to eat before returning to take possession of his new lodgings.
Chapter Six
Kate
“Good to see you back, Scott.” Kate glanced at the open file on her laptop screen as her first patient walked through the door Tuesday morning.
Scott Young. Age: 35. Former Marine. Violent physical trauma. PTSD. Second visit.
Kate forced herself to be cheerful and positive and not to think about poor Betty, not to drag like she’d spent the night without sleep, which she had. To best serve her patients, she checked her own problems at the front door. She needed to be fully available to the people she treated.
Scott nodded at her, a head taller than Kate and heavy built, with a military haircut still. He’d never cracked a smile that she’d seen. Everywhere he went on the property, he always entered tense, scoping out the room as if he was stepping into enemy territory.
“You can go in and hop on the table,” she told him.
She already had her blue scrubs on, so she did a few minutes’ worth of paperwork while she waited for him to call out that he was ready for her.
When her phone rang, the display showing Shannon O’Brian, Kate picked up. She could always spare a minute for a friend. “Hi, Shannon. Everything all right?”
“The honeymoon suite is finally finished,” the Broslin Bed-and-Breakfast’s proprietor said. “Wendy is going to bring by a friend to take photos next week. I was hoping you could do a website update for me after that? I need to get the suite up for bookings. The contractors took forever. I lost six months’ worth of income on that room. I need to catch up.”
Kate ran a website for kids in foster care, so she’d learned the skills for that and helped out friends with their internet needs now and then.
She glanced at her calendar. “How about after the Mushroom Festival? My sister is here from LA, and I already spend all day at work. I want to spend some time with her, at least in the evenings.”
“After the festival would be perfect. Say hi to your sister for me.”
“I will.” Kate made a note about the website.
Then Scott called out, “Ready!”
Kate ended the call with Shannon and went to treat her patient. She didn’t light a candle. She’d learned—the hard way—that smoke and fire were triggers for him.
“Sorry about last time,” he mumbled.
“We’ll start slow. Any time you want to stop, Scott, you say the word, and I step back. I can even step out of the room for a few minutes if you need me to do that.”
He nodded.
She smiled. “I’m going to fold the sheet back from your legs.”
When he didn’t protest, she gently uncovered his right leg. Scars covered him everywhere. No matter what body part she’d start with, she couldn’t avoid his injuries.
Scott Young had been captured by the Taliban, tortured daily for a month, then left behind for dead when they moved camp. Kate hoped she could help him. The last time, they hadn’t made it to five minutes before he bolted.
“How is your stay here so far?” She kept her tone light and professional. Patients picked up on her moods, if she was worried or uncertain.
“I like swimming and walks in the woods,” he said after a couple of seconds.
Activities that he could do alone, she noted.
“I’m going to put some warm massage oil in my hands now.” No sudden movements. She reached for the warmer next to him and lifted the bottle, poured, then spread the oil by rubbing her palms together. “I’m going to touch your right calf. I’ll just lay my hand on your skin for starters. See how that feels.”
His rough raised scars were uneven, as if he’d been cut by a serrated blade, the marks wide and gnarly, as if someone had rubbed irritant into his raw wounds. She couldn’t even imagine. Nor would she ever ask.
She rested her hand as lightly on his skin as possible, felt his body vibrate with tension regardless. “Try to relax.”
He let out a strangled l
augh. But then, after a moment, he did force himself to go still. He was making an effort, giving treatment a chance. And that was all Kate asked.
“I’ll start working now, okay? While I see what’s going on with these muscles, can you tell me where it hurts the most?”
He laughed again—a bitter, bitter sound. “In my head.”
She moved her fingers gently—no digging deep for this patient. Her primary goal was just to have him allow her to touch him. For now. Once she achieved that, they would progress from there.
As the minutes ticked by, Scott relaxed. He had to work damn hard for it. She could see him regulate his breathing.
“You’re doing great.”
She worked over the muscles under her hands. “I’m going to move up to your thigh. Same thing. It’s not going to hurt. I promise.”
God bless his immense self-control, he let her.
She worked his other leg, then covered that up too, to keep the muscles warm. “I’m going to uncover your shoulders next.”
He didn’t say anything, but he had his eyes closed, for the first time. They hadn’t worked together long enough yet for her to learn his signs. Were closed eyes good or bad?
Definitely bad.
As Kate’s fingertips touched his shoulder, he spun with a roar. His left hand gripped her wrist, holding her immobile, while his right hand shot for her throat and grabbed it hard.
Scott!
Her air cut off, she could only scream in her head.
She scrambled with her free hand to pry his fingers off her throat, but his muscles might as well have been made of steel. “Scott!”
He was staring at her without seeing, as he sat up and bent her back.
“Plssz,” was the most Kate could manage, a wheeze, the hoarse whine of an animal in a deadly trap.
Stars sparked in her peripheral vision. Then darkness began closing in from the edges. She had seconds left before she’d pass out.
Don’t panic.
Don’t panic!
While they were in exile in Ohio, Murph had spent considerable time teaching her self-defense. Except, back then, not hurting her assailant hadn’t been a concern. She could punch Scott in the throat, hard, or in other places that hurt. But she wouldn’t, because he was her patient.
Against all instinct, Kate forced herself to go limp instead of fighting back.
Scott held her for another interminable moment, then his eyes cleared, and then his muscles unclenched.
She fell to the ground with a thud.
Ouch. That hurt.
As she gasped for air, she was damn glad it was over.
He was across the room, wedged into the far corner in nothing but black boxer shorts, before she could blink or catch her breath.
“Oh shit. I’m sorry.” He had his hands out in front of him, palms toward her, his eyes tortured and begging. “I’m so sorry, Kate. Are you okay? I don’t know why I did that.”
“Are you all right?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
A strangled laugh. “Am I all right? Are you kidding me? Shit, Kate. I’m so sorry.”
He slid down, his back against the wall, his knees pulled to the mangled skin on his chest, casting his hands away from him as if they disgusted him. His eyes that had been hard seconds before turned soft with misery, glinting with tears. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
“Nothing we can’t fix.” She stood up. Smiled. In control. That was the vibe she wanted to project. “I’m going to go out into my office so you can get dressed. Then we talk. All right? I’m fine. Take your time.”
She walked by him and turned her back on him without fear. His flashback was over, whatever images of hell it’d shown him gone. As Kate sat behind her desk and opened an incident report, her hands only shook a little.
Name of patient, name of staff, date and time, treatment involved…
Before Kate could decide exactly what to type in the event description field, Scott was out, wearing a US Marines logo sweatshirt and faded jeans. He stopped as far from her as the small space allowed.
“We’re going to have to cancel our next appointment,” she told him in the friendliest tone possible.
Wretchedness poured off him. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I can’t even tell you how sorry I am. I’ll pack my stuff and leave.”
“That’s not how it works. You’re not discharged.”
“But—”
“Look at me.” She waited until he finally raised his troubled gaze to hers. “I’m fine. You’re fine. I’m not putting an ounce of blame on you. I’m canceling our next appointment because I want you to double up on talk therapy this week. After that, I will meet with you and Maria, and the three of us will reevaluate your treatment plan together. All right?”
His shoulders remained hunched. He looked away, then back. “Why would you do that?”
“Why did you willingly walk into enemy territory?”
He shrugged. “It was my job. What I signed up for.”
“There you have it. We both know the risks of our jobs. We do them anyway, because we care.”
He shook his head, and his lips almost curved at the very corner. “I’m batshit crazy, I fully admit it. But, and I hate to be the one to tell you this, you’re not entirely sane either.”
She laughed, didn’t let it show that it hurt her throat. “I’ll see you in a couple of days?”
“If you’re sure. I swear, I won’t blame you if—”
“I’m sure, Scott. It’s my job. What I signed up for. Why don’t you take the rest of the hour and go for a walk in the woods?”
He drew a slow breath. Nodded. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. You take care.”
After he left, Kate finished her report and sent a note over to Maria. They were going to help Scott Young and that was that. They’d fixed worse at the center. Scott’s treatment might end up being a bumpy road, but it wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle.
As Kate typed, her gaze fell on her bruised right wrist. Bad day to be wearing a short-sleeve T-shirt under her scrubs. When she finished the report, she stepped into her bathroom to check out her neck.
The purpling skin there looked even worse, marks left in the distinct shape of fingers. She grabbed a silk scarf from the hook on the back of the door, one she’d left there after that first cold snap they’d had. Then, back in front of the mirror, she wrapped the scarf loosely around her sore neck.
There. No problem.
An overly optimistic thought proven wrong in three minutes flat when her door banged open and Murph appeared.
“What the hell happened?” He zeroed in on Kate’s wrist before she could hide her hand under her desk.
“Scott Young had a brief episode.”
“He said.” Murph’s gaze snapped to her scarf. “Show me your neck.”
“It’s fine.”
He was the picture of simmering fury, a volcano pre-eruption, not spitting lava yet, but the earth was definitely trembling. “Kate, dammit—”
“Fine.” She unraveled the silk with short, jerky movements, glaring at him all the while. “Better?”
“No, it’s not better,” he said between his teeth as he stepped forward, coming to a sudden halt in front of her desk. “Makes me want to punch a fucking wall.”
She tilted her head. “Anger management class is at two p.m.”
“Dammit, Kate—”
“You already said that.”
“Why wasn’t he evaluated?”
“He was. He had issues at the first session, but he wasn’t violent. I’ll go slower with him next time.”
“No next time.”
“That’s a decision for me to make. He’s my patient. You taught me self-defense. You have to trust me to know how to use it.”
While she rewrapped her neck, he backed away a step. “Next time you treat him, I’m going to be in the room.”
“We’ll see.”
“You’ll see me because I’ll be
there. And I’ll see you, also because I’ll be there.”
She fought a smile that would just have encouraged him. Instead, she let her exasperation show. “You’re a stubborn ass.”
“You can call me anything you want. Now or then. Because I’ll be in the room.”
“Fine!” God, what was wrong with her? Because while his overprotective ogre instincts annoyed her, they also turned her on. She seriously needed therapy.
Only a sick mind would remember right then how he’d once—okay, way more than once—taken her and driven her to mindless pleasure on the very desk between them.
His eyes narrowed for a second, as if he was reading her thoughts. His ridiculously wide shoulders relaxed a fraction. “And another thing—”
“There’s no other thing.” She shooed him toward the door. “I have work to do. Go away.”
He fixed her with a hard look. “I expect an email with the date and time of your next session with Scott Young.”
“Which letter in the word go is causing the difficulty?” she snapped, then the anger trickled away as if someone had pulled the plug on her tubful of pent-up fury. She buried her face in her hands for a second before she dropped them to look at him. “Dammit, Murph.” She sounded tired. She was tired. “We’re always fighting lately.”
He just stared at her—for five solid seconds, at least. As if she was being unreasonable. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Held up his hand as a sign of surrender and walked away, shaking his head in that universal gesture men had when they were insinuating that a woman was too emotional to deal with.
She wanted to throw something at his back. He could be so freaking aggravating. “Men!”
“Can’t live without us,” he called back over his shoulder.
“Can’t wait until you all pile onto a spaceship and go off to colonize Mars!”
His back rippled, as if he were laughing.
She waited until he was gone, then, since she had plenty of time before her next patient, she went off to the physical therapist to borrow a wrist guard. As far as her bruises went, for the rest of the day, nobody was the wiser.
She only took the wrist guard off in her car on the way home. She didn’t dwell on the mild injury. She would heal. At least her car was finally back from the mechanic, radiator fixed. She disliked depending on other people for rides. She disliked depending on anyone for anything.
