by Lisa Gardner
He opened the last door, gestured inside. “My pad,” he said simply.
It was neater than I expected. No towels or stray clothing strewn across the floor. The furniture was College Dorm 101. A double mattress, sans frame and headboard. An old maple dresser, slightly lopsided, missing one knob. An equally old maple desk, small for a guy Greg’s size, and dwarfed by a black office chair.
No posters hanging up. No pictures adorning the dresser. The room featured cream-colored paint on the walls, dark green sheets on the bed, and tan blinds on the sunny windows. That was it. The room was a way station. A place for someone to crash, not for someone to live.
I looked at Greg, realizing for the first time how little I knew about him.
“No photo of the girlfriend on the nightstand?” I commented.
“No nightstand,” he said. “No girlfriend.”
“Family?”
“Got a sister in Pennsylvania.”
“You never talk about her.”
“You never ask.”
He had me there. I rarely questioned him or anyone else. It was ironic, if you thought about it. My entire personal history entered the room way before I did; I could see it on people’s faces when we were finally introduced. Oh, so she’s the one whose father shot everyone.… Therefore, I didn’t inquire about others. That would invite them to ask about me, and then I’d have to verify the rumors in their heads.
“Ever see her?” I asked now. “Your sister?”
“Not lately.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “Busy working, I guess.” He set his duffel bag down next to the wall. We both stared awkwardly at each other, too aware of the mattress in the corner.
“Not much artwork,” I commented at last.
“No.”
“Don’t plan on staying for long?”
“Don’t spend much time here,” he answered. “I work two jobs, and save my pennies to buy a home someday. I want a fenced-in yard, a puppy, a wife, and two-point-two kids. That’s where I’m going. This is just where I am now.”
I didn’t say anything. It was a nice dream. Fit him. He wasn’t screwing around. That kind of baggage … all mine, not his.
Greg cleared his throat. “Thirsty?”
“Okay.”
We returned to the kitchen. Dishes crowded the sink, the countertop could use a scrubbing. Greg made a disparaging sound in the back of his throat, so I was guessing the roommates made the mess. He left it, however, opening the vintage fridge to retrieve one Gatorade and one Diet Coke. He handed me the Diet Coke, opened the Gatorade for himself.
“Got any rum?” I joked, taking the first cold sip.
He regarded me for a second, then reached above the fridge and pulled down a bottle of Captain Morgan. He handed it to me, like a dare. How badly did I want to self-destruct?
After a minute, I handed the bottle back, untouched. He replaced it on top of the fridge. I finished my Coke. He finished his Gatorade. Then we were back to our staring contest.
“I’ll take the couch,” he said. “You can have the bedroom. AC should’ve cooled it by now. I’ll get you some clean sheets.”
“Brought me all the way here to sleep alone?” I asked.
He replied calmly, “I’m not your father, Danielle. I won’t fuck you.”
I hit him. Hard, before either of us expected it. He took the blow squarely in the jaw. I heard my knuckles crack. His head, on the other hand, barely wavered. So I hit him again, this time in the hard plank of his stomach. Not so much as an oomph, the fit bastard.
I went to town, slapping at him, pummeling desperately. I whacked his sides, his chest, his shoulders. I hit and hit and hit. And he stood there, as if he were a marble statue and I were a feral pigeon flapping around his feet.
“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” I heard myself scream.
I brought up my knee, going for the money shot. At the last second, he blocked the jab. Then his hands captured my wrists, and suddenly he had me backed up against the far wall. Now I was the one on the defensive, my small frame pinned by his larger build.
He leaned down, face so close I could count the beads of sweat dotting his upper lip. His eyes were a deep dark brown. Chocolate, with a ring of gold in the middle.
He was going to kiss me. In my agitated state, I couldn’t decide if I would kiss him back, or bite him.
“I won’t fuck you,” he said again.
“Bastard!”
“When I let you go, you’ll stop hitting me. You’ll go down the hall, get into bed, and get some goddamn sleep. Do you understand?”
“Asshole!”
“Feel better yet?”
I growled at him. He still didn’t release my wrists. Then, abruptly, our bodies so close together, I felt the hard length of him against my hip. He wanted me. It gave me a sense of power I hadn’t had in days. I moved against him, slightly dipped and swayed.
The gold ring around his pupils contracted. Another bead of sweat appeared on his upper lip.
I raised my right leg, hooking it around his hips and jerking his pelvis deeper into mine. I decided that fucking Gym Coach Greg might be the best way ever of escaping from my own mind.
His head lowered, his lips hovering just above mine. I worked my hips again, until I could feel his erection right where I wanted it. I started rubbing, slowly, lightly, picking up speed and pressure as I went along.
He was panting. So was I. Maybe we wouldn’t move. Maybe we’d dry hump right here in the kitchen. After that, I’d take some rum. I’d chug it before walking out of this goddamn apartment and going home alone.
Then, God help me, I saw Lucy again, her small body hanging from the ceiling, and I broke. Tears welled up. I wanted to cry. I needed to cry. But it wouldn’t be enough. Couldn’t be enough. My mother, Natalie, Johnny. Lucy.
I hit Greg again. Weak, this time. Weary. Then I collapsed into the support pillar of his body, my face buried in the salty curve of his neck.
Greg scooped me up. He carried me down the hall. He tucked me into bed.
“Sleep.”
He closed the door. I was pitched into darkness, where I could once again smell cordite and blood. Except this time, I was the one holding the gun, standing beside my mother’s bed.
“You said you’d help me. You said you’d make him stop.”
“Danielle …”
“You said you believed me.”
“Danielle—”
The front door slamming shut. My father’s drunken voice booming up the stairs, “Honey, I’m home!”
Me raising the gun.
“Danielle!”
Cordite and blood. Singing and screaming. Love and hate.
The story of my life.
My eyes snapped open.
I lay on Greg’s mattress, curled up in the cool darkness, and didn’t sleep again.
Phone was ringing. The sound came from the living room and it finally roused me from my post-weeping lethargy. I rolled off the mattress, tested out my legs, and decided they’d hold.
I opened the bedroom door, hearing Greg’s deep baritone in the living room.
“Yeah, I can come in. What time does the kid arrive? What are the protocols?”
There was silence as he listened to the answers. He was talking to Karen. A new child was arriving at the unit and, for some reason, Karen wanted Greg there for the show.
I walked into the living room, waited for him to see me. His dark hair was damp from a recent shower; he was wearing a navy blue towel around his waist and nothing else. I stared at his deeply tanned torso, ridged with muscle, and my mouth went dry.
I retreated to the single bathroom, where I splashed cold water on my face and tried to regain my bearings. Greg was Greg. Greg had always been Greg.
But I’d never realized before what Greg looked like naked.
I took another minute, then opened the bathroom door to find Greg in the hallway. He’d changed into gym shorts and a white polo shirt. It ma
de it easier for both of us.
“That was Karen,” he announced. “Listen, I gotta go to work. You can stay if you’d like. My roommates probably won’t return until late.”
“What time is it?”
“Four p.m.”
I frowned, surprised by the time. Perhaps I’d dozed off after all.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“New arrival,” he said, already walking down the hall to retrieve his gym bag. I trailed after him.
“Why you?”
“Kid has a history of violence. Karen would feel better with me there.”
“What’d he do?”
“Stabbed his mother.”
“When?”
“Sounds like this morning.”
“Mother okay?”
“Don’t know.”
“How old’s the kid?”
“Eight. Currently catatonic, according to the ER docs. Most likely shock.”
“And once that wears off …” I agreed. The panic would set in, and the explosive child would explode.
“Looks like it’ll be a night.” Greg slipped on a pair of nylon workout pants over his shorts. He slung his bag over his shoulder and, that quickly, he was good to go.
I stared at him. He stared at me. A faint bruise marred the line of his jaw. I took a step forward without thinking. I traced the bruise lightly with my fingertips, then, standing on my tiptoes, I gently kissed the mark I’d left on his skin.
“I’m sorry,” I said honestly.
“Danielle …” he said thickly.
“What?”
“It’s not always about you. Just remember that, okay? It’s not always about you.”
“Okay.”
I kissed his jaw again. I inhaled the fragrance of his freshly showered skin, then I stepped back. He went to work.
I had other business to tend to.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
D.D. got her taskforce. The linking of the Harringtons to the Laraquette-Solis family via the pediatric psych ward, plus the subsequent death of another child in the same unit, all served to catch the superintendent’s attention. D.D. made a step up from being viewed as an extremely paranoid investigator to being one smart cookie. The fact that the media had latched on to the salacious news potential of two heinous mass murders in two days didn’t hurt either. The press hadn’t linked the family murders yet, but were granting enough coverage of the two tragedies that the superintendent saw the wisdom of quickly closing out both the Harrington and Laraquette-Solis cases. D.D. got ten detectives to throw at the hospital scene.
She also got to wake up in the arms of a handsome man.
Her damn pager was going off at the time, meaning they shared half a dozen glazed donuts instead of half a dozen bouts of steamy sex, but still, best morning she’d had in years.
She was smiling when Alex drove her back to the psych ward, perhaps even whistling as they walked through the lobby and rode the elevators to the eighth floor. They exited the elevators outside the secured glass doors of the pediatric unit, and discovered Andrew Lightfoot chatting up the security guard.
“What the hell are you doing here?” D.D. demanded.
“Working,” he said. “Can’t you feel it?” He held out his forearm, which was covered in goose bumps. “Bad juju,” he murmured as they entered the unit. “Better find your inner angel, Sergeant. Because, take it from me, your inner bitch’s got nothing on whatever’s going on in here.”
D.D. and her team set up in their favorite classroom. They were armed with search warrants and they knew how to use them. In the next twenty-four hours, D.D. planned on obtaining preliminary statements from every staff member working the unit. Back in HQ, Phil was running background reports on each employee, while Neil was formulating a list of other hospital workers—doctors, therapists, janitors, food service employees, local shamans, etc.—who routinely visited the floor. Two more detectives would be sent out to work the list, tracking down each person, securing an initial interview, and doing the background checks.
It was the classic machine-gun approach: fast and furious. D.D. didn’t mind. She was on the hunt for big game, and jazzed about it.
The hospital, of course, had sent its lawyer to supervise the activities. Being that it was a gorgeous Sunday afternoon and most of the high-powered partners were out on their yachts, some young chick in a navy blue Ann Taylor pantsuit had drawn the short straw. The lawyer made a big show of inspecting each search warrant, slowly scrutinizing every word, before returning the documents with a crisp “Fine.”
D.D. liked her already. The kind of looks-good-but-has-no-experience legal eagle a BPD sergeant could eat for lunch.
D.D.’s team got to it, setting up for interviews and preparing to copy more files. Satisfied with their progress, D.D. went in search of her first target of choice: Andrew Lightfoot.
She found him in the dead girl’s room. The lone mattress remained in the middle of the floor. Andrew sat in front of it, cross-legged, feet bare, eyes closed, hands resting on his knees, palms up. His lips were moving, but no sound came out.
D.D. walked around until she stood in front of him. The minute her shadow touched his face, Lightfoot opened his eyes and stared at her. He didn’t seem surprised by her sudden presence, and that pissed her off enough to attack first.
“Why didn’t you tell us you worked here?” she demanded.
“I don’t.”
D.D. arched a brow, waving her hand around the room. “And yet, here you are.”
Lightfoot rose fluidly to standing. “Karen asked me to come. The unit is acute, the energies imbalanced. She asked me to perform a cleansing exercise, and assist with her staff. So here I am.”
“Karen, the nurse manager? She hired you?”
“Not everyone is a skeptic.” He smiled patiently.
D.D. felt pissed off all over again. “How long have you and Karen known each other?”
“Two years.”
“Personal or professional?”
“Professional.”
“How’d you meet?”
“Through a family. They asked that I assist with their child, who was admitted here. Karen became impressed by the child’s progress. She asked me to work with her staff on basic meditation and energy-boosting exercises. From time to time, she also recommends my services to other families.”
“She likes you?”
“She believes in my work.”
“You’re rich and good-looking. Bet that doesn’t hurt.”
“You think I’m rich and good-looking?” Lightfoot smiled again.
“I think you’re cocky and arrogant,” D.D. countered.
Lightfoot’s smile grew broader. “Leopard can’t change all of his spots,” he agreed.
“You and Karen ever go out?”
“It is strictly a professional relationship, Sergeant. I assist her and her staff. She recommends my services.”
“Did she recommend you to the Harringtons?”
“That referral came from a different source.”
“When was the last time you saw Ozzie?”
“Three months ago.”
“And Tika?”
“I don’t know that child.”
“Yet you know she’s a child,” D.D. pounced.
Lightfoot regarded her evenly. “We are talking about kids, thus it stands to reason that Tika is a kid. Sergeant, you seem angry. We should leave this room; it’s not good for you.”
He didn’t give her a chance to reply, but turned toward the doorway. It forced her to follow him, which, come to think of it, made her angrier.
“We’ll go to the classroom—” she started tightly.
“This is perfect,” Lightfoot said, as if she’d never spoken. He’d stopped in front of the huge window at the end of the hall. “Here, in the sunbeam. You’ve been spending too much time under fluorescent bulbs, Sergeant. You need more vitamin D.”
D.D. stared at him wide-eyed.
“I’
m a healer,” Lightfoot said quietly. “Just because you don’t believe doesn’t mean I’m going to change who I am.”
“Have you ever worked with a child who was a cutter?” D.D. asked.
“Who self-mutilates, you mean? Not lately.”
“Karen refer you to such a family?”
“No.”
“What was the last family she referred you to?”
“I don’t really remember, or keep track,” Lightfoot said vaguely. D.D. narrowed her eyes, studied him for a bit.
Up close and personal, she could make out deep shadows beneath Lightfoot’s eyes, a pallor beneath his tanned skin. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one not getting enough vitamin D.
“Up late last night?” she asked him.
He hesitated. “I have been up late ever since you visited my home. I had planned to take a few more days off, but it is not to be.”
“Why?”
He turned toward the window, seemed to be studying the sun. D.D. was startled to realize that the healer was shivering slightly, his bare arms still covered with goose bumps.
“I have spent the past two evenings on the spiritual interplanes,” he said at last. “As I tried to explain to you by phone, something is coming. I can feel it. Have you ever heard the expression ‘a darkness deeper than night’?”
D.D. nodded, still studying him.
“I never knew what that meant, but now I do. There’s something terrible out there. Or maybe, now it’s in here.” Suddenly, Lightfoot reached out, touched her cheek.
In spite of herself, D.D. gasped. Lightfoot’s fingers felt like dry ice against her skin. So cold they nearly burned. She took an instinctive step back.
The healer nodded. “Negative energy feels like a deep chill. However, I’m an advanced and powerful healer. Meaning I should be able to fight that cold. I should be able to warm my hands. But since entering the unit, I can’t do it. Something terrible holds sway here. It’s rooted in Lucy’s room, but is already expanding to the entire floor. A cold, malevolent force. A darkness deeper than night. Lucy couldn’t survive it. And neither, I think, can we. It’s why I asked you to leave that room and join me here in the sun.”
