No Ordinary Man

by Suzanne Brockman

  Great. That meant if she went and asked Rob if he was a serial killer, he would perceive that she wanted him to tell her no, so he’d say no. So whether he was, or whether he wasn’t, the answer would still be no….

  Number five was suicidal tendencies and-or paranoid thinking. Rob had the second half of that one covered, from the mysterious people who were out to get him to the money he kept hidden in the freezer.

  Number six was alcohol or drug-abusing parents.

  Number seven was physical or emotional abuse as a child. My father was a beast….

  Jess put down the pamphlet.

  She could remember the look on Rob’s face after they made love.

  She could see the way his mouth curved, at first just a bit at the edges, then more and more until his face broke into a genuine smile.

  She could see his eyes hot with desire, warm with love, even icy with anger.

  But she couldn’t, not for the life of her, picture him raping a woman and slitting her throat.

  She simply could not imagine it.

  There must be some kind of mistake.

  Pushing herself to her feet, Jess found a pay phone, slipped a quarter in the coin slot, and dialed the number on Selma’s card.

  As the older woman picked up, Jess didn’t even bother to identify herself. “I still don’t believe it’s Rob,” she said.

  Selma sighed. “Jess—”

  “Did we or did we not have a deal?”

  “Of course we—”

  “Then get a warrant, and search Ian’s condo.”

  Selma sighed again. “All right, but—”

  “I need to speak to Mr. Elliot,” Jess continued. “I have some questions for him.”

  “I’ll connect you right away.”

  There was a brief pause, then the FBI agent’s voice came on. “Elliot.”

  “You said there were six sets of fingerprints found in Rob’s apartment.”

  “Jess, tell me where you are, I’ll come give you a ride home.” His voice was oddly gentle, but she couldn’t let the surprise of his unexpected kindness distract her.

  “Just answer my question, please.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Six sets.”

  “How can you be sure which of those six sets are Rob’s?”

  Elliot was silent for a moment. “We can’t,” he finally answered. “One set of prints was that of a child. We’re assuming those belong to your daughter. One set is yours.” He laughed shortly. “You probably won’t like this, but we took your prints off a glass in your kitchen.”

  “I hope you intend to return the glass,” Jess said.

  “We already did.”

  “So that leaves four sets of fingerprints,” she concluded. “One of the sets you’ve matched to the killer’s.”

  “Yes. What exactly are you driving at, Ms. Baxter?” Parker Elliot sounded impatient.

  “You can call me Jess,” she told him, “and drop the Ms. Baxter crap.”

  She could almost see him bristle on the other end of the phone. “I’m just trying to be polite—”

  “You’re just trying to intimidate me, Elliot, so cut it out. You called me Jess a minute ago.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah. You slipped and actually acted human.”

  He gave a short bark of laughter. “You sound like Selma,” he said. “All right, Jess, get to the point of this phone call.”

  “Four people were in Rob’s apartment,” Jess said. “Four people, four sets of fingerprints. But if those four people walked out of that apartment and stood in a line, you’d really have no way of knowing which of them was the murderer. Not unless you took their fingerprints.”

  Elliot laughed again. “I get it,” he said. “You’re still working hard on denying that Carpenter’s the killer. Okay.” He took a deep breath, exhaling loudly. “We’ll go with this for a while. We have four sets of prints, four men. And you’re right. Any one of those four could be the man we’re looking for. We’re assuming it’s Carpenter because of the evidence we found in the car that he’d been driving.”

  “What if,” Jess continued. “What if I told you that I could name the men that the four sets of prints belonged to, and what if I told you that each of those men at one time or another borrowed Rob’s car?”

  Elliot suddenly became very, very silent. “Go on,” he finally said.

  “Rob is one, my ex-husband Ian Davis is two, Frank Madsen, a friend of ours who worked with Rob and stayed in his apartment for a few weeks is three, and Stanford Greene, who lives next door is four,” Jess concluded. “And you’re right. I don’t think Rob’s the one you’re looking for. I think it’s Ian.”

  “The ex-husband?” He swore softly, on a sigh. “All right. Give me Davis’s address. I’ll go by there and check his place out. And we’ll pick him up for questioning.”

  Jess felt the hope she was carrying around in the pit of her stomach start to expand. “So you think it could be Ian…?”

  Elliot sighed again, even softer this time. “It’s a nice theory, Jess, but unfortunately it doesn’t offer an explanation for Carpenter’s lack of proper identification. You know, it’s not exactly legal to use an assumed name and social security number. Whoever he is, he has something to hide,” he said. “My money’s still on Carpenter being our man.”

  “But you’ll take Ian’s fingerprints,” Jess persisted, “and compare them to the killer’s?”

  “We will.”

  She closed her eyes. “I know it’s Ian.”

  Elliot sighed again, and when he spoke, his voice had lost its hard edge. He sounded remarkably compassionate. “If it’s Ian,” he asked, “then why is Rob the one who’s running?”

  HE WAS GOING TO have to change. Too many people were afraid. Too many people knew what to look for.

  Too bad.

  He liked the rope. He liked it a lot.

  Maybe just one more time…

  He closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep again.

  Jess.

  She was always there in his dreams. She smiled radiantly, her face lovely, so lovely….

  But suddenly the smile wasn’t for him. She was turning, walking away….

  He felt the rush of panic. Don’t leave, he wanted to shout, but she just kept walking. He tried to run toward her, but he felt as if he were surrounded by molasses. He could barely move, barely breathe….

  He screamed again, and it came out a strangled moan.

  She turned.

  But her face had changed.

  She wasn’t Jess. She was his mother. She was so big, so angry, her eyes impossibly red with rage, towering over him….

  “You can’t have her,” his mother taunted. Laughing harshly, abrasively. He wanted to cover his ears the way he had when he was a boy.

  But the blade was in his hand. He could feel the cold smoothness of the metal.

  “She’ll never be yours,” she said, her face mocking. “You worthless piece of—”

  He struck.

  The sound of the blade slicing was so familiar, the hiss of her windpipe, the spray of warm blood on his face….

  Her eyes began to glaze as the life left her body. But still she smiled, now lovingly, tenderly. And spoke.

  “Kill her.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Slowly, Jess unlocked the kitchen door, and let herself inside.

  It was quiet as dusk drew near. She could hear the kitchen clock ticking, the second hand pounding its way around the dial.

  Ian was the killer. It had to be him.

  Not Rob.

  Still, she left the kitchen door open.

  Parker Elliot was going to stop by after he went over to Ian’s and checked out his sick idea of wallpaper. And in the meantime, there were still several other FBI agents finishing up their work in Rob’s apartment. If Jess screamed, someone would hear her.

  But that was ridiculous. She wouldn’t have any reason to scream. It wasn’t Rob. It was Ian.

  But Parker Elliot
was convinced Rob was the killer.

  Rob.

  She didn’t even know his real name.

  Her heart in her throat, Jess moved quietly through the apartment, and pushed open her bedroom door.

  It was darker in there with all the shades pulled down. She let her eyes adjust, and saw Rob lying in the middle of her bed. He lay on his back, one arm thrown carelessly over his head, legs twisted in the sheet.

  He breathed slowly, steadily, his face relaxed.

  He looked so young, so innocent, even with the tattoos on his arm. Maybe especially because of the tattoos on his arm…

  He couldn’t be a killer.

  She crept past him, into the bathroom, where his clothes were lying on the floor.

  His jeans were caked with dried blood, and his socks and underwear were filthy. She carried them carefully into the laundry room that was just off the kitchen, and tossed everything into the washing machine. There wasn’t time to wash it separately.

  Back in the kitchen, she washed her hands, then picked up the phone and quickly dialed Doris’s number.

  Her friend answered on the second ring.

  “Hi, it’s me,” Jess said. “Sorry I’m calling so late. How’s Kelsey?”

  “She’s fine. She’s teaching my two-year-old how to color. They’re both happy, and I’ve even managed to get some of my work done around the house,” Doris said.

  “I need to ask you a huge favor,” Jess said.

  Doris laughed. “How huge?”

  “Well…”

  “How late do you want her to stay?” Doris asked, making it easy. “Can’t be past eleven, I’ve got a class over at Ringling School of Art in the morning.”

  “Eleven is no problem,” Jess responded, glancing at the clock. It was six-thirty. “It’ll probably be more like nine-thirty or ten.”

  “You’re lucky she’s an angel,” Doris said.

  “I know. Doris, thank you. You’re an angel, too.”

  Jess hung up the phone and got out her big spaghetti pot. She started filling it with water.

  She wasn’t hungry. In fact her stomach felt tight, almost sick with anxiety. But she wanted to give Rob something to eat before she…

  Kicked him out.

  She closed her eyes, the sick feeling in her stomach getting stronger. That’s what she was going to do. She was going to kick Rob out of her house at a time when he needed her the most.

  But he couldn’t stay here. Not with Kelsey here, too.

  He wasn’t the killer.

  She believed that with almost all of her heart.

  But what if, just what if she was wrong?

  For God’s sake, she didn’t even know his damned name.

  She might’ve been willing to risk her own life, but not her daughter’s.

  So she’d feed him, make sure his clothes were clean, and she’d drive him over to the beach house. He could stay there for a few days. At least until his ankle got strong enough to walk on.

  She put the pot of water on the stove and turned the gas up high, then got the sauce and a pile of fresh vegetables from the refrigerator.

  She turned the radio on to the country station and set the volume low enough so it wouldn’t wake Rob, then fell into a pattern of cutting. Summer squash, cauliflower, broccoli, green beans, snap peas. She moved slowly, taking her time, afraid that if she slipped and cut herself, the sight of her blood would take away her last bit of control. Finally, she put everything together in the vegetable steamer, and turned it on low.

  As the water for the pasta began to boil, she heard the washing machine complete its cycle. She poured nearly an entire box of little pasta shells into the pot, stirred it once, then went back into the laundry room.

  The dried blood on the jeans hadn’t washed out, but the stain looked more like dirt now. She wasn’t sure what to do about the hole….

  A knock on the door made her jump, and she stuffed the jeans into the dryer and turned it on before she went out into the kitchen.

  It was Parker Elliot.

  He stood on the other side of the screen, looking in at her. She resisted the urge to glance nervously back at the hallway that led to the bedroom where Rob was sleeping.

  “May I come in?”

  Damn, thought Jess, but she opened the screen door, and he stepped inside.

  Elliot sniffed appreciatively at the aromatic spaghetti sauce that was bubbling on the stove. “I just spoke to Selma,” he reported. “Ian Davis wasn’t home when I went over to his place. We’ve got a warrant out for him now.”

  He was watching her closely, his sharp gray eyes not missing the sudden paleness of her face. Jess sat down heavily at the kitchen table.

  “He could be anywhere,” she said.

  “I’ll leave a man out in front of your house tonight,” he assured her. “At least until we locate Davis.”

  Jess put her head in her hands. “Lord, I wish this would just be over.”

  “I’ve been wishing that for a long time,” Elliot said quietly. “I started wishing that the day I opened the file and read the first murder reports from the Sarasota Police.”

  Jess looked up at him, watching as he lifted the lid off the pot of spaghetti sauce and stirred it with the spoon that was out on the counter.

  “I’m going to nail this guy,” he vowed. His voice was deceptively soft, but his eyes were as hard as rocks. “I’m going to see him burn. But, you know, it never ends. I’ll go back to Quantico and find seven new files on my desk. Seven new killers working overtime. My team will help me pick one, and we’ll spend six months tracking down that—”

  Elliot used a word Jess didn’t expect to hear, coming from him. It seemed so emotional, so heartfelt, so spontaneous. He apologized instantly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I must be more tired than I thought. In this job, I’ve seen the worst mankind can dish out. Still, I’m constantly appalled at the things people do.”

  He looked down at the kitchen floor, and for a moment, Jess could see the weariness in his face.

  “Parker,” she began. “Maybe Selma’s right. Maybe you should take a vacation.”

  There was no mistaking the hope in his eyes as he looked up at her, and inwardly she swore to herself. He wanted her to invite him to stay—for dinner, and maybe even more.

  “I can’t ask you to stay,” Jess said softly.

  Elliot hid his disappointment with a curt nod. “I know.” He turned to the door. “I’ll call you after we apprehend Davis.”

  “Thank you, I’ll feel better knowing you’ve caught him.”

  He nodded again and left.

  Jess sighed, and remembering his warning about Ian, locked the kitchen door.

  The timer buzzed, so she turned off the pasta, and poured it into the colander that was perched in the middle of the sink.

  Then she went to wake up Rob.

  Already awake, he looked at her as she pushed open the door. She stood in the doorway and watched him.

  “You really draw them like flies, don’t you?” His voice was soft.

  “What?” Jess asked uncertainly.

  “You know,” Rob said. “Men.” He painfully pulled himself up, holding on to the bedpost so that he was sitting in the bed. He looked mysterious in the dim light. Shadows fell across his face, and outlined and defined the strong muscles of his bare chest and arms. “That guy was FBI, right?”

  Silently, Jess nodded.

  “I can understand how it must’ve driven Ian nuts,” Rob continued. “Wherever you go, men fall all over themselves to help you, to try to be near you—”

  “I don’t ask for it,” Jess interjected, her chin out in defense. “I treat everyone exactly the same—”

  “Jess, I know, I’m not accusing you of anything,” Rob said, his voice gentle.

  Jess’s heart felt squeezed. Nearly every word that sprang to her lips, everything that she wanted to say to him was an accusation. And yet she could barely look at him without wanting to feel him lying ag
ainst her. She wanted him to kiss her, hold her….

  “I washed your clothes,” she managed to say. “They’re in the dryer now. And I made you something to eat.”

  He nodded, his face still in the shadows. “After that, I’ll go.”

  “I’ll drive you to my parents’ beach house on Siesta Key,” she whispered, not looking at him. “It’ll be empty until next weekend. That should give your ankle enough time to heal….”

  Rob didn’t speak for a moment, watching her. She hadn’t moved from the doorway, hadn’t come closer. Her head was bent now in misery.

  “Jess, I love you,” he said, pain in his voice. “I never meant to hurt you this way.”

  “Tell me what you’re running from,” she pleaded, her voice low.

  He shifted his weight, and she looked at him. Suddenly spooked by the shadows, she flipped on the light. He looked down, eyes shut against the sudden brightness. He was silent, not answering her question.

  With the light on, she could see the lines of strain on his face, the pain that was etched about the corners of his mouth. She could see where his leg had bled through the bandage and the sheet. She could see the tension in his shoulders and neck. She could see the muscle working in his jaw.

  And then she couldn’t see anything, blinded by her own tears. Angrily she wiped them away. “Damn it,” she said. “Tell me. At least tell me your name. Your real name.”

  As she watched, he nodded, very slowly, very slightly, still looking away from her.

  “Connor Garrison,” he said.

  “Connor,” Jess repeated, her voice only a whisper.

  He looked up at her then, and she gasped.

  Blue.

  His eyes were blue. Not just any old blue, but nearly turquoise.

  “Oh, Lord,” Jess breathed.

  All this time, he’d been wearing contact lenses to make his eyes look brown. His name wasn’t Rob, it was Connor. His soft brown eyes were really brilliant blue.

  She looked at his brown hair, then down at the hair on his arms and legs. It was noticeably lighter. “Your hair’s really blond,” she stated. It wasn’t even a question.