He didn’t like the incredulous way she stared at him. His inner sense knew she mocked him. “What are you, some kind of meteorologist that you can forecast the weather? I’ve never met a freakin’ genius before.”
“Why are you making fun of me? I don’t like it when people do that.”
“It’s a joke, sweetie. Honest, I’m joking. Can’t you take a joke?”
Bennie whispered in his ear. We don’t like Daisy. She’s not a nice flower. Tell her she isn’t nice, Bennie.
Benjamin sprang from the kitchen chair, knocking it over. The black holes in his head had opened. Electrical conduits were short circuiting. He pressed a hand against his temple to ease the white flashes of pain.
“Do your friends like your sarcasm? I don’t like it when people make fun of me! And if you d-do it again”—he pointed toward the door—“storm or not, you can leave, and if you slip on the rocks and break your neck, I won’t cry over you.”
Daisy scooted against the corner of the couch as if she were trying to wedge herself to safety. “Whoa, sweetie. I didn’t mean to light your fuse. I’m a waitress—well, actually a barmaid—and tend to forget not everyone appreciates my dry sense of humor.”
Without a further word, he strode to the bedroom and returned with a quilt. He tossed it to her. “I gotta work tomorrow. Be up and ready by the time I leave.”
“What time is that?”
“You’ll know when I wake you. Don’t expect breakfast. I eat in town.”
He turned out the lights and walked to his bedroom in the dark.
****
The dream came the way it always did when he was stressed. Benjamin didn’t like this dream and fought to wake himself. The blankets covering him scalded his body. He thrashed and kicked them aside.
The dream persisted, sucking him into a deep abyss. He was at a funeral. The day was unbearably hot in the graveyard. His mother gripped his hand until the life drained from his fingers. He was a little boy. He was three. The priest droned on and on. Benjamin inhaled the offensive odors of sweating bodies. His little legs hurt. He wanted to sit down. There were no chairs.
His mother rocked from side to side, keening piteously, while he struggled to keep her standing upright. Finally, the priest shut up, and the sweaty gravediggers walked forward with their shovels. His mother cried out, “Wait. Not yet.”
She yanked on Benjamin’s arm, dragging him closer to the casket. Her bloodless lips and her lifeless eyes turned vibrant and frightening. She bent to face him. “Your twin is in there. Why didn’t you die, too?”
He drew back. “No, Mommy. I a good boy.”
He had backed against the casket. He snatched his hand from her grasp to cover his ears as she screeched venomous words. “You are a bad boy. You are a filthy boy. You are a selfish, rotten little bastard.”
An older man, his grandfather, reached out and slapped her hard across the face. “Stop that incessant screaming, Rose. It isn’t Benjamin’s fault his twin died. The lad slipped and fell from the cliff. He couldn’t survive a broken neck. It was an accident.”
Benjamin lowered his hands from his ears. He kept his hands at his side. His mother’s cheeks filled with color. Her vibrant blue eyes snapped fire. “What did I do to deserve a boy as evil as you?”
The dream turned. Benjamin’s fingers fished for the quilt to cover his shivering body. The next memory was strong. His grandfather lifted him into a boat. “Hold tight to the lantern, Benjamin.”
“Why, Grandfather?”
“Never you mind. Be a good boy and do as I say.”
The old man pushed the small skiff from the shoreline until he stood knee deep. Then, climbing inside, he took up the oars. The boat lumbered against the roiling water. Lightning coursed across the sky enough for Benjamin to see the whitecaps cresting the waves. He was afraid. “Are we fishing, Grandfather?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
There were no stars to light the way. The sound of waves slapping the side of the craft frightened Benjamin. He gripped the lantern’s wire handle. And then the boat stopped moving forward. The gentle to-and-fro motion lulled Benjamin. He wanted to sleep.
“Don’t drop the lantern, Benjamin. We need it to find our way home.”
He watched the old man use a sailor’s knife to slice open a plastic bag. “Sit on the bow and hold the lantern high, lad, and watch for sharks.”
“Why did Bennett die, Grandfather? Wasn’t he a good boy too?”
“Don’t talk, Benjamin, and don’t look at me. Watch for sharks.”
He heard a splash, and then another, and another. The metallic odor of blood assailed his nostrils. In the lantern light, he watched fins slice through the water. Another splash. More sharks. The boat rocked dangerously on its side as the killers fought for the prize grandfather was tossing overboard. Benjamin was afraid and wanted to shriek. A voice inside his head warned, Shh…mustn’t scream.
At home, his grandfather instructed him to go into the house. “Go to bed. I’ll hear your prayers as soon as I wash up.”
The dream continued in a mist of surrealism. The bed sagged as the old man sat on the mattress.
“Where is Mama?”
“She’s sleeping with the sharks.”
That night was the first time Bennie visited him. Don’t scream. Don’t ever scream. It will get you dead.
And at the tender age of five years, Benjamin still believed he’d killed his twin.
A woman’s voice beckoned him. Not his mother’s. “Hey…hey! Wake up.”
Benjamin slapped away the hands shaking him. The black holes in his brain closed, the pain subsided, and the dream faded. He blinked in the darkness. “Why are you in my room?”
Daisy hovered over him. “Hey, dude, that must have been some freakin’ scary nightmare. You were screamin’ your head off.”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stumbled to the bathroom. “Get out of my room, and close the door.”
After relieving his bladder, he opened the door and peered out to make sure she had obeyed his command.
The clock’s fluorescent hands read two a.m. He lay back and stared at the ceiling. The darkness gathered at the fringes of his mind. Pressure grew at the back of his skull. He felt it with another tendril running up his spine and pressing against the back of his eyes.
He knew the black holes had opened and had begun feasting on his brain. Wake up, Bennie.
No, I’m Benjamin. You’re Bennie.
Who the hell cares? We’re twins, and our flower waits.
He eased out of bed and slipped from the bedroom. He wasn’t sweating or shivering. His heart pumped a little faster. Bennie came alive inside him.
Benjamin stilled. He closed his eyes and reminded himself that he was Bennie, and Bennie was him.
The storm outside had calmed. The storm inside Benjamin roared to life. Moonlight spilled through the kitchen window, flooding the open space with shadowy light.
Gently, he eased back the quilt from Daisy’s supine body. The flannel shirt had ridden over her thighs to reveal her nakedness. He almost roared with delight.
The snickering inside his head stopped him when he reached down to touch her. Daisy is a pretty flower. We like pretty flowers.
She was sound asleep and beautiful. In the moonlight, her skin appeared pale and flawless. Her brown hair was long, straight, and sleek.
She’s here for us, Bennie. I brought her to you. Go ahead. I want to watch.
His hands trembled as he traced fingers up her inner thigh. He sighed. It felt good to touch a woman again. He quivered as he gently unbuttoned the flannel shirt. His crotch ached. He needed to relieve himself. He carefully folded back the top to reveal the fullness of each breast. She released a breathless sigh. His hand hovered.
Daisy’s voluptuous frame stiffened. She came awake fast, sat up, and scooted away from him. “What the hell are you doing, you freakin’ pervert?”
He drew back. “Don’t…don’t screa
m.”
In the dim light, her nostrils flared, and her brow knotted into a fierce frown. She pushed to a standing position, the cushion sagging under her weight. With her hands balled into fists, she snarled, “Touch me, and I’ll kick your brains out.”
“No…no…it’s a mistake. I only wanted to love you.” He grabbed his head. “It’s Bennie. He’s the bad boy.”
It’s been a long time, Bennie. Ten years. Don’t chicken out. You deserve to be loved.
“I deserve to be loved.”
She blinked owlishly. “I’ve stepped into a freakin’ insane asylum. Stay away from me. Just let me leave and no one will know what’s happened here.” She made a little motion against her mouth as if turning a lock. “My lips are sealed.”
His hand snaked out and grabbed her ankle. He pulled her down. She lashed out with the other foot—landing a resounding blow to the side of his head.
For a moment, colored sparkles floated before his eyes. He shook his head to clear his vision. He yanked again. Her back bumped the edge of the couch as he dragged her to the floor. She fought as he straddled her, and she screamed. She pummeled his back with her fists, and she screamed louder.
He placed his hand over her mouth and squeezed her cheeks. “Shh…shh. I don’t like screaming. P-please don’t scream.”
She forced her mouth open and clamped down on the soft part between his thumb and forefinger. She thrashed beneath him. He fell to one side. Daisy rolled to her knees and struggled to crawl to the front door. He grabbed her legs and pulled her back. He lifted her to a standing position, and held her in a bear hug.
She inhaled deeply, and spoke in a calm, rational voice. “Sweetie, if it’s sex you want, I’ll give it to you for free. Just…don’t hurt me.”
He groaned against the pain. The tempo inside his brain was reaching a crescendo. Each word she spoke sounded like nails scratching down a chalkboard.
His hands wrapped around her throat. He squeezed. A rush of ecstasy washed through his body like a wave of warm sea water. Her eyelids fluttered rapidly. She opened her mouth wide. He saw the constriction moving up and down her throat and knew he had to stop the sound.
“This is the last time I’ll ask you not to scream.”
With a sharp jerk, he twisted with all his might. He was aware of the moment Daisy Fuller died, and with it came a rush of release that made an ordinary orgasm pale in comparison. It lit him up. Every nerve in his body tingled with delicious sensitivity and sent quivering aftershocks into his convulsing muscles.
Ah, Bennie, you’re a good boy…a good boy.
Slowly, cell by cell, Benjamin’s brain reawakened. The pleasure ebbed and delight receded as rationality returned. His hands trembled as he looked at the limp body crumpled at his feet.
He sank to his knees and lifted her into his arms. He sobbed, “Go away, Bennie. This is all your fault.”
Chapter Nineteen
Prior to leaving New York, disturbing dreams had plagued Laura. A psychiatrist had diagnosed her with post traumatic stress syndrome.
The panic attack that hit a few minutes before three in the morning left her drenched in sweat. She lay in bed, thinking about all of it—Jolly’s death, Elio Casper’s threat, falling in a grave and landing on top of a skeleton, the white roses—and at the same time trying not to think about any of it.
Her skin was on fire. She peeled off her pjs, stepped into the shower, and scrubbed herself from head to toe. For a full thirty minutes she stood there letting the warm water flow over her skin. She brushed her teeth, gargled with mouthwash, put on a fresh set of pajamas, and crawled back into bed.
She fought against the urge to do it all over again. This time she was cold and shivery, and the clothes touching her body felt scratchy and irritating. She struggled to ward off the panic. She got out of bed and paced the length of the room and back. She walked out to the sun porch. The monotonous clanging of the buoy escalated her tension. She turned to go back to bed and stubbed her little toe against the coffee table leg. “Ouch! Shit!”
A light went on from the other side of the porch. She had awakened her aunt.
“Laura?”
“Go back to bed, Aunt Philly. I’m okay.” And the tears came.
Phyllis folded Laura into her arms. She soothed her with cooing sounds. “How about a cup of my special hot chocolate?”
Laura nodded against her aunt’s shoulder. “Make mine with a double shot of amaretto.”
At four in the morning, she sat on the bed, shivering, cradling the mug of chocolate. “I hate not being able to control these attacks. It comes over me like a storm. I feel weak and out of control.”
“Listen to me, Laura Friday. You’ve had a trauma that most women will never experience in their entire lifetime. It’s barely been four months since you were shot. You lost your best friend, and you came close to losing your own life. Then you uprooted from everything familiar, moved here, and dove right into running a newspaper. Healing, both physically and mentally, takes time—months, maybe years.”
Phyllis scooted to the edge of the chair. She tucked the blanket tighter around Laura’s body. “It’s been eons since I’ve had a real vacation. Never had a reason to take one. It will do us both good to get away. So, when fall comes, I propose we take ourselves a Mediterranean cruise. Instead of mooning over the travel brochures collecting dust on my bedside table, I say let’s make it a reality. We both need a change of scenery. What do you say to that?”
Laura swiped the tears from her cheeks. “Works for me.”
Phyllis looked at the clock. She gathered the mugs. “Try to get some rest.”
When the shivering subsided, tiredness overtook Laura. She drifted off and slept.
The sound of birds tweeting jerked her awake. She opened her eyes to bright sunlight streaming through the open mini-blinds. The clock read eight forty-five. Two hours past her usual rising time. She awoke with the awareness that she was alive, and all she had to do was put one foot in front of the other. She felt shattered. Completely exhausted. She forced herself to stand up and stretch. Limping to the kitchen, she poured a cup of coffee, and took the cup onto the sun porch so she could see the trees. The branches swayed in the wind, dancing, the puffy white clouds behind them scudding along at a merry pace—the promise of a pleasant day.
She watched Benjamin Noone with his hedge clippers trimming the topiaries, and then Maudie Perry approached him with the usual morning cup of coffee and the little white sack, which Laura knew contained a bagel with cream cheese and lox. The odd relationship between Maudie and Benjamin stymied her.
Her cell phone chimed. She half hopped, half limped to the bedroom. Mitch’s cell number. She answered on the fourth ring.
Her voice was breathless when she spoke. “Mitch?”
“Good morning, Friday. Thought you’d like to know the ME faxed his report to me this morning.”
Her heart quickened. “And?”
“Dental analysis confirms our skeleton is definitely Lynnette Braswell. He also faxed a copy of the forensic artist’s composite, which is a close match to the photo in the newspaper article. Exact cause of death—cervical fracture.”
“What happens now?”
“The ME will put out the usual seventy-two-hour search for family members. If no one claims the body, he’ll see to the cremation.”
“Was there anything in the report to point a finger toward who might have killed her?”
“Ten years is a long time. The ME’s report was thorough. Unfortunately, nothing. At least our girl is no longer a Jane Doe.”
Laura sat on the bed to take the pressure off her leg. She sighed. “It’s too bad she remains a cold case. Guess we can be thankful part of the mystery is solved. Anything more about the peeping tom?”
“Case closed. But, Friday…I do have another piece of news. It’s about Elio Casper.”
Unease rippled over her. Bitter bile from the coffee rose in her throat. She swallowed, closed her eyes, forced he
rself to take slow breaths.
“Okay.” Her voice came out in a gravelly whisper.
She listened, uncertain she’d heard his words correctly.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She thought for a minute, then shook her head. “I don’t think I can, Mitch.”
“Gotta go. Louise is signaling that I have a call on the office line. We’ll talk later.”
A queasy discomfort gurgled in Laura’s stomach, like when she’d had one too many gin and tonics. Placing both hands over her mouth, she swallowed the scream. Her heart pounded in her throat. Her legs felt rubbery, and she wasn’t sure she could make it to the bathroom.
Shrugging out of her pajamas, Laura cranked on the shower taps and stepped under the spray. She stood there with her head hanging down and Mitch’s words sifting through her mind. Elio Casper was dead. Stabbed during an exercise session in the prison yard. And Mario Gombiani, drug lord? Gunned down in a feud over territories.
Her entire body trembled, her breaths weren’t breaths at all but hiccup-like sobs. And then she felt something amazing. Peace.
Chapter Twenty
“Mitch, line one. It’s Bryan Cole. Sounds urgent.”
He pushed the button. “Ranger Cole?”
“Got an emergency at Thunder Hole, and it’s a hellish nightmare.”
Mitch stopped smiling and listened. “Close off the area to spectators. We don’t need a panic. Don’t touch anything. Try to preserve the scene as much as possible. As for witnesses, isolate them from each other. It will keep them from feeding off each other’s recollections. Get them coffee, and pencil and paper to write down everything they can remember. I’ll get there asap!”
“Will do.”
As Mitch hung up the phone, he issued instructions to Louise. “Call Dr. Musuyo, tell him he’ll need his forensics kit, an EMT, and the ambulance, and to meet me at the main entrance of the national park. Musuyo is to ask for Ranger Jane Dorsey. She’ll direct him to the scene.”
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