Nowhere to Run

by Nancy Bush

  “You’ve been having dreams,” Auggie whispered. “About the doctor . . .” He moved his hand in the “go ahead” signal.

  “I’ve been having dreams,” Liv said. “About a doctor . . . at Hathaway House. I feel like it’s important somehow.” Auggie was nodding at her. Good. Good. Keep going, he mouthed. “A visiting doctor, maybe? He wasn’t there all the time. He kind of—stalked, if you know what I mean.”

  Dr. Yancy didn’t answer immediately. “Have you spoken to anyone else at Hathaway House about this?”

  “I wanted to talk to you first,” Liv said.

  “You know I’m retired?”

  “You helped me.”

  “But I wasn’t your personal doctor, Talia.”

  Liv swallowed hard. She’d forgotten that. “I always trusted you,” she stated honestly. “Do you know the doctor I mean?” she asked urgently. “Do you remember him?”

  “I think you mean Dr. Navarone.”

  Navarone!

  “Dr. Navarone,” Liv repeated for Auggie’s benefit. “He wasn’t one of the regular doctors.”

  “He was on staff at Grandview Hospital during that time,” she said. “He came to Hathaway when he could. We were always short-staffed.”

  Liv felt her senses swirl. “Grandview,” she said faintly.

  “You know the hospital’s no longer in existence,” Dr. Yancy went on. “Loss of government funding. Grandview’s now an elder-care facility.”

  “Oh . . . no, I didn’t know,” she murmured.

  Auggie was eyeing her with concern. She could imagine what she looked like: white face, pale lips, shadowed eyes. And she felt like she was going to faint. Gripping the receiver harder, she said, “I’d like to reach Dr. Navarone. Do you know where he is now?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t.” A pause. “Are you all right, Talia?”

  “Fine.”

  “I know Hathaway House is for teens, mostly, but if you’re looking for a recommendation, I could give you some names, or make some calls—”

  “No, no . . . thank you, but no . . . I’m . . . I’ve got that handled. I just wanted to find Dr. Navarone.”

  She said slowly, as if thinking over her words, “I don’t know quite why you’re so interested in him, but he might not be the right doctor for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “His methods were unorthodox, and he was . . .”

  When she paused long enough for Liv to worry she wasn’t going to go on, she urged, “Tell me. Please.”

  “He was asked to leave Grandview. He was a fine doctor,” she added quickly. “His reputation was clean. It was just his methods weren’t in sync with Grandview.”

  “And Hathaway House . . . ?”

  “He was never accused of any wrongdoing, you understand. But he was . . . his methods were deemed unacceptable at other facilities as well.”

  “What kind of methods?” Liv asked.

  “What are you looking for, Talia?”

  The doctor’s voice had grown ever more cautious. Time to hang up. “I think he was the doctor of a friend of mine who really felt he’d helped her,” Liv said, lying through her teeth. Her voice was starting to shake. One of those “I cannot tell a lie” idiosyncracies that cropped up unexpectedly. “I just was hoping to find him.”

  “Well . . .” There was censure in her tone. “I’m not sure I would recommend the man.”

  “If I asked at Hathaway House, do you think they’d know where he was?”

  “Are you still getting treatment?”

  “I’m seeing someone privately.” She glanced around the room wildly, her gaze falling on Auggie. “Dr. Augdogsen.”

  “I don’t recognize the name,” Dr. Yancy said, and Auggie shook his head in disbelief.

  “He’s not from the Portland area.”

  “Well, if you need anything, please call again, now that you have my number. I’d be happy to help.”

  “Thank you. I will.” Liv hung up quickly, her hands trembling.

  “Augdogsen?” Auggie repeated, picking up the cell phone where she’d set it down.

  She ignored that. “The zombie doctor is Dr. Navarone. I recognize the name. He’s the stalker in the photos, I’m almost sure of it. I never paid that much attention to him at Hathaway House. He looked different than in the photo, but I’m almost positive he’s the guy.” Liv hugged herself, suddenly cold even though the room was warm. “The killer.”

  “So, where is he now?”

  “She didn’t know. He used to be at Grandview Hospital, but now it’s an elder-care center, and he was asked to leave anyway, something about his methods of treatment.”

  “Electric shock therapy? Lobotomies? Kumbaya?”

  “None of the above,” she said automatically. They looked at each other, and for some reason both of them cracked up. “I don’t know why I’m laughing,” she said after several moments of hilarity. “Hysteria, I guess.”

  “C’mere.” He pulled her to her feet, amusement still lurking around the corners of his eyes. “You can’t keep this stress up without some laughing. You’ll go crazy.” She lifted a brow at him, and he made a sound. “I wasn’t gonna say it.”

  “You thought it.”

  “You’re the one who thinks you’re crazy. I’m just here to listen.”

  “My dad’s the one who thought I was crazy,” she corrected him. “And Lorinda. Later, they sent Hague away, too, though I was out of Hathaway by then.”

  “Your brother was at Hathaway House?”

  “No . . . Hague’s my father’s real son. Not his crazy adopted daughter whose real parents were probably crazy, too. Hathaway wasn’t quite good enough for blood.” Liv looked into his face, so close still; he hadn’t backed away from her. “To Grandview Hospital.”

  He stared at her. “Are you saying your brother was at Grandview when Dr. Navarone was there?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.” Liv moved slightly away from him. Being so close was becoming unnerving.

  “So . . . does Hague know something about Navarone?”

  “I don’t know. Hague’s hard to read.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  They keep their hands in their pockets and wear rigor smiles.... He’ll drill holes in your head and he’ll put receivers inside the folds of your brain.... We both know him . . . from when we were kids...

  She shivered, remembering.

  “What?” Auggie’s gaze sharpened on her.

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t know much more than I do. Less, probably. He’s not really in touch with reality.”

  “You showed him the package.”

  “He barely leaves his apartment.”

  “But maybe he’s involved somehow, at some level. Could he have any—”

  “No!” Liv cut him off. “He doesn’t have anything to do with this. My brother’s sick, but not like that. He wouldn’t hurt anybody. He was a baby when my mother died! And the only place he goes is to the ground-floor cantina in his own building.”

  “But it sounds like he crossed paths with Navarone at Grandview. Maybe something got kick-started then that involves Hague. Maybe—”

  She pushed him. In the chest. In sudden fury. He staggered back a couple of steps.

  “Hey,” he said, affronted. He’d been so wrapped up in his train of thought that she felt he’d forgotten she was there.

  “Leave Hague out of this,” Liv ordered. “It’s not about him.”

  “Well, it kinda is,” he argued. “He didn’t kill your mother, sure, but there’s a connection there.”

  She wanted to clap her hands over her ears. No! Not Hague. Not her little brother.

  “If this Dr. Navarone is the man in the picture with your mother, and she sent you these photos, photos you showed to your brother who was a patient at Grandview Mental Hospital about the same time Navarone was there . . .”

  Liv didn’t respond. She was wrestling with anxiety and a sudden fear that she might not want to know the truth after al
l.

  “When you showed your brother, and his girlfriend, caretaker, whatever, and your father and stepmother, the photos in the package, they saw this guy. The stalking man in the photo. And you told them you were going to look into your mother’s death, and so maybe . . . somehow . . . word got back to him?”

  “I don’t know for sure they’re one and the same,” Liv said, backpedaling.

  “We need to find this Navarone.” Auggie was certain.

  “We,” she repeated.

  “We’ll go to Grandview. So it’s an elder-care facility now. Someone there might remember, or at least direct us to Navarone.”

  “Why are you doing this? What do you care?” she demanded, her voice rising.

  He stared at her for a long moment, then slowly leaned forward, grabbing her by the forearms and pulling her gently toward him. She resisted, holding back, until her feet actually stumbled a bit as he drew her closer.

  “What are you doing? Let go of me,” she said in a voice that sounded high and alarmed to her own ears.

  “Stop fighting. Let me help you,” he stated with repressed urgency.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  His face was way too close to hers. “Maybe not. You dragged me into this, and now I’m committed. I have to know how it ends.”

  “How it ends?” She half-laughed. Definitely hysteria creeping in this time.

  “I’m going to kiss you,” he said.

  She reared back on that one, eyes wide. “No . . . I . . .”

  But her protests were lost beneath his lips on hers. Liv stood stock still, completely shocked. She told herself to move but her brain and body felt disconnected. All she could really feel were his lips molding to hers, his thighs pressed to hers, his hands sliding around the small of her back.

  She didn’t want him. She didn’t. She didn’t want any man. But her traitorous fingers were clenched on his arms, feeling taut, sinewy muscle beneath. Her mind fractured. Too many sensations bombarded her at once: his lips, his hands, his shallow breaths. No, those were her breaths, rapidly growing in tandem with her heartbeats.

  His mouth was hard and soft and warm and his tongue teased at the crease of her lips.

  She wasn’t sure how this had happened. She didn’t want it to stop.

  She opened her mouth to protest and his tongue moved in, taking it as an invitation. The feel of his tongue was warm and slick and the way it filled her mouth did something to her knees. They quivered wildly and she would have sunk down, but his arm was a bar around her back, keeping her lower body hot against his.

  She could feel his arousal. It was all she could think about. She’d put on her jeans and a clean T-shirt but it felt as if there were nothing between them. Her bones had turned to liquid. Her skin felt sensitized. Somewhere in her mind she knew she should resist, but she couldn’t. This was nothing like anything she’d experienced before and she suddenly wanted it. Wanted it. If she died tomorrow, she was going to have this. Now.

  He sensed her capitulation and half-walked her, half-dragged her to the couch. They didn’t say a word to each other. One moment they were kissing and bending toward each other as if they wanted to fuse bodies, the next they were both naked and she was feeling the cushions of the couch meet her bare buttocks and shoulders.

  And then he hesitated. As if second thoughts had finally penetrated the blinding passion that consumed them. “I—don’t—” he began.

  “Shhh . . .” She dragged his mouth down to hers.

  It was all she needed to say. His body pressed against hers, his hands sliding along her sides, one of them caressing her left breast convulsively. Her hips rose of their own accord and his other hand slid between her legs, stroking her in a way that sent her pulse skyrocketing and made her desire flame along her nerves.

  Hurry, she thought. Hurry. If something happened—anything—to interrupt them, she didn’t think she could bear it.

  And then he was poised at the brink of fully taking her and she wanted to yank him forward. Somewhere distantly in her brain she sensed that if things didn’t proceed at breakneck pace they wouldn’t happen. Reason would reassert itself. Auggie would remember she was a crazy, damaged fugitive and would stop himself.

  And she needed this. Maybe it wasn’t love. But it was desire. And she was going to have it.

  “Livvie . . .” he whispered unsteadily.

  “Come on,” she urged, her hands running down the hard muscles of his back.

  That did it. He pushed against her and she felt a joyous thrill slide into her feminine core. Her hips urged him forward and he pushed harder, entering her, wringing a gasp from her lips. He stopped but her hands were urgent, pulling him closer and then he began rhythmically moving, sliding in and out until her mind was mush and she was simply sensation. No body. Nothing. Some other plane of consciousness.

  The pressure built. Her body moved with his as if she’d been meant for him. Maybe she was, she thought half-hysterically. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t understood the joy of Trask and Jo, why she hadn’t felt anything that even vaguely resembled this pleasure.

  Trask . . .

  For a moment she was filled with anguish, but a pulse was beating in her head and her hips were meeting his in a delicious rhythm and before she knew it her hands were raking his back and she was convulsing beneath him, crying out. A moment later he thrust harder, stiffening in his own climax before he collapsed against her, his breath rasping against her ear, his heart galloping against hers.

  Chapter 15

  Liv woke up as if she’d been asleep, though she hadn’t. One moment she was tangled on the couch in Auggie’s arms and legs, the next she was off her astral plane and back into reality with a bang.

  Her first thought was: we didn’t use protection.

  Her second: it’s way down the list of my worries.

  When she stirred, he lifted his arms, managing somehow to prop himself on his elbow and regard her lazily. She watched him push a strand of her honey-brown hair away from her face.

  “I am crazy,” she said seriously.

  “It must be catching.”

  Feeling idiotic, she picked up the scraps of her clothing, eased herself from his embrace, headed into the bathroom and closed the door behind her with a soft thunk that sounded as loud as thunder to her ears.

  She dressed hurriedly. Checked herself in the mirror.

  Good. God.

  She stepped back into the living room to realize he’d put on his boxers and jeans again. He was still shirtless and standing beside the couch.

  They stared at each other. After a moment, she said, “Well.”

  He said, “Wanna go again?”

  “Yes . . . no . . . no . . .”

  He sat back down on the couch. Liv told herself to stay away from him, but she walked over and sank down beside him as if she had no will.

  He laced the fingers of his left hand through those of her right. Her heart was thudding so hard it hurt. He was looking at her, she could tell, but she couldn’t turn toward him.

  “I want to,” he said, his breath fanning her ear. “Tell me you don’t and make me believe it.”

  The heat from his hand was radiating up her arm and through her chest, reaching toward her hammering heart. She was no proof against his slow seduction. If it was a battle, he was going to win. It made no sense to her. She should be running, planning, escaping . . .

  When he stood up again, pulling her with him and leading her to the bedroom, she complied as if the whole thing had been scripted.

  And when he turned her toward him at the side of the bed and his mouth captured hers and her hand was on his chest and she felt the light and fast beat of his own heart, she moved her mouth down to his bare chest and lay a row of kisses down his sternum that had him making a strangled sound.

  A moment later they were both on the bed, their clothes being ripped off with frantic fingers and searching mouths.

  Auggie lay beside Liv on the bed, his naked body spooned u
p next to hers. He couldn’t tell if she was awake or asleep. He would guess awake, as he was. And probably just as conflicted. But happy. Or, maybe relieved. Or something.

  Damn, but this shouldn’t have happened. Especially as many times as it had.

  Damn, but he wasn’t sorry.

  If he let his brain travel along the recent road of these last moments he could get all stirred up again and he knew that wasn’t a good idea.

  Well, not unless she wanted to again, of course.

  Her eyes were closed. Her lashes lying soft and weblike against her cheek. As if feeling his intense gaze, her lids opened and she turned her hazel eyes to him. They searched the depths of each other’s eyes.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “Grandview,” he told her, and then a bit more reluctantly, “Time to get dressed.”

  September stood beside Gretchen at George’s workstation and listened with only half an ear to his report. He’d met up with Paul de Fore’s parents, who were making burial plans for their son. In the course of his one foray into real fieldwork, he’d learned enough about the de Fores and Paul to convince him that the Zuma massacre had nothing to do with them.

  “They’re relatively sane, hard-working, unimaginative. Neither of ’em has enough passion to break a smile. Their son sounds just like them, from all accounts. More rigid maybe. But whoever shot the shit out of Zuma . . . it ain’t them.”

  “In your opinion,” Gretchen said.

  “Yours, too. If you’d talked to them.”

  George had also been digging into the Zuma finances and their contracts with video-gaming distributors. “Military, schmilitary. They’re just developing video games. Lots of shooting and fake blood and gurgling sound effects. Rad showed me some backdoor ways to get to upper game levels. That’s about the extent of their secret military involvement. And with Phillip Berelli as the company comptroller, they look like they’re paying all their bills and taxes, too.”

  “So, you’re saying this wasn’t about Upjohn or de Fore,” Gretchen said.

  “Doesn’t read that way. And it doesn’t seem like this was some disgruntled employee. Most everyone who’s worked for Upjohn left on their own accord.” George looked at September. “You okay?”