by Rita Herron
Especially if he discovered she’d lost their baby.
Besides, time had passed. He probably had another woman in his life. And she was blind, would be a burden to any man, especially one as adventurous as Mark. He liked outdoor sports, parachuting, mountain climbing, skiing, all kinds of activities she couldn’t participate in now.
Worse, being close to him only reminded her of the night they’d made their baby.
Forcing the torturous thoughts from her mind, she concentrated on her acquaintances and entered their names into the program, although she felt as if she was betraying them by listing them for the police. But the task had to be done. And it gave her something concrete to focus on besides the fact that Mark was watching her every movement. Even without sight, she felt him following her, gauging her facial expressions, honing in on her fear so he could use it to persuade her to stop hosting her show.
But she’d been on the receiving end of the phone calls, had heard those women’s pain-filled pleas, and she intended to help stop the killer. It was the only way she could silence the haunting cries in her mind and atone for her responsibility in the victims’ deaths.
Dragging herself back to the keyboard, she plugged in several names. Ian Hall, the new Director of CIRP. Dr. Ferguson, the head of the psychiatry department. Dr. Kurt Lassiter, another psychiatrist. She paused, remembering the lunch they’d shared the week before, they way he’d touched her hand when she’d reached for her water glass. She’d sensed he wanted more than lunch, but she hadn’t encouraged a relationship.
Shaking off the uncomfortable feeling that he’d been angry with her when she’d declined his invitation to a movie, she added a few other names: Billy Mack, a counselor on staff, and two of the orderlies who helped with patients, Ray Foote and Ted Cleaver. But she couldn’t possibly remember the entire staff at CIRP. The police would have to check the hospital personnel records.
Next, she added Drew Myers, the producer of the radio show, and his assistant, Bailey Cummings, but Bailey was no more than a college intern. And Drew had been nothing but a friend. Then there was Arden Holland, the janitor. Deciding he was too old to fit the profile and not agile enough to pull off a murder and escape, she dismissed him completely.
Remembering Agent Devlin’s request for her patient records, she mentally ticked down the list, wondering if any one of them could have orchestrated the killings. Joel Sanger, a young man in his late twenties, had experienced a psychotic break after a plane crash. Recently he had exhibited violent tendencies toward women. She also had to consider her newest patient, Richard Wheaton, a man she suspected might be suffering from DID, dissociative identity disorder. Richard had been traumatized as a child. Now his behavior was erratic. She’d only begun to scratch the surface of his problems.
Could one of them be responsible for the deaths?
If so, and she started asking questions, would he try to kill her next?
Chapter Three
Mark accepted the list from Claire. Working with her was going to be hard, watching her struggle to maintain her independence with a handicap even worse.
But not touching her would be the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.
He had wanted her the first moment he’d seen her.
Ironically, they had met in a Starbucks when he’d been on leave for the weekend. Her hair had brushed his shoulder as she’d turned to grab a packet of sweetener. When she’d laughed and said that she was a coffee addict, he’d looked into her gorgeous eyes, and they’d immediately connected. A week later, he’d taken her to dinner. A day later to bed. The romance had been fast, sometimes sweet, but very seductive. And the sex had been mind-boggling.
But the breakup—inevitable.
He was, after all, his father’s son, and didn’t know how to hold on to a woman.
But at least his father had been a hero in the military. Had received a distinguished award for bravery and heroism in a recon mission. Had died in the line of duty serving his country, rescuing prisoners of war a few years ago.
Mark saw the faces of his fallen men in his mind’s eye. Even though the army had hinted at giving him a commendation, he had refused it. He didn’t deserve to be rewarded when his friends lay six feet under, their families still mourning.
“There are other employees.” Claire broke into his thoughts, indicating the printout of names she’d given him, “but you’ll have to obtain those from CIRP.”
“I’m sure Devlin is on it.” His gaze dropped from her rose petal mouth to the paper, and he skimmed the list, his fists tightening. “I’d like to interview the people on this list as soon as
Claire ran a finger over her watch, obviously reading the braille settings. “Most everyone will be gone by now.”
He nodded, then realized Claire couldn’t see him. She’d never look into his eyes with that same sweet lust again. He had to clear his throat to talk. “They leave at five?”
“Not always, but by eight or nine, everyone’s pretty much cleared out except for the janitorial staff and security guards.”
“Then I’ll start tomorrow.” He folded the paper and tucked it inside his jacket pocket. “What are your plans tonight?”
A frown creased her brow as if she was surprised he asked. “I’m going to the studio for the show.”
“You can’t be serious?”
Her chin rose a notch. “Of course I’m serious. I told you I wouldn’t give up my job.”
“But a woman was murdered last night, Claire. You must be shaken by her phone call and that creep’s message to you.”
“That’s exactly the reason I have to go.” She picked up the phone. “If the killer wants to connect with me, I have to be there when he calls.”
“Is that what the legal advisors of the show suggest?”
She hesitated. “They’re concerned, but it’s important to present the image that I’m cooperating in trying to find this madman. We’re going to set up a separate line, too, so we can transfer the calls and the public won’t have to listen.”
“The research center is using you for free publicity.” He moved so swiftly and grabbed her arm that she startled and dropped the phone. “Don’t do it, Claire.” His gaze latched on the curve of her cheek, her slightly parted lips, a tiny scar at the corner of her chin that hadn’t been there before. He couldn’t stand to see her hurt again. And he wanted to reach out and touch that scar. Kiss away the pain that had caused it. “Please, Claire, stay home.”
Her breath whistled between them, soft, yet full of tension. Once it had vibrated with want, desire, heat. Now he felt only anger.
“I can’t, Mark. Besides, the station is tightening security for me. Now, if you intend to work on this case, either help me or leave and request another agent.” She reached for his hand, firmly lifted his fingers away from her arm. He caught her fingers in his for the briefest of seconds, savoring her touch, feeling her warmth seep into the cold places he’d lived with since he’d lost her a year ago.
A tense second passed between them, fraught with old memories, and need. He was just about to reach out and brush an errant hair from her cheek when Claire swallowed. “Let me go, Mark, so I can phone the station to send over a car.”
He dropped her fingers, aching at the loss and reminding himself that he couldn’t get personally entangled with Claire again. His men had died and he’d walked away alive, at least physically. Mentally he was a mess. He didn’t deserve Claire. He wasn’t sure there was even enough of him left to give her what she needed either
Still, he refused to leave her unprotected. “Forget the car. If you’re going to the radio station, I’ll drive you.”
“No—”
“The subject is not up for debate, Claire. I’ll let the station security know.” He smiled, his next words half threat, half promise. “Since I’ve been assigned to protect you, I intend to stick to you like glue.”
At one time she would have welcomed that. But this time, her lip trembled, and she had no
reply. She gathered her purse, then he slid his hand to the small of her back to guide her to the door. Instead of leaning into him, warming to his touch as she once had, she pulled away, reached for her cane and walked ahead alone, her chin held high. The cane clicked ominously on the floor in front of him, its sound mimicking a soldier’s march.
His heart twisted in response—her dismissal was a firm reminder that everything between them had changed.
GRATEFUL FOR the glass window separating her and Mark, Claire kept her head down, her focus on preparing for the evening show. The car ride had been excruciating, the close quarters too confining for comfort.
She had wanted to touch Mark so badly it hurt.
Memories of her accident assaulted her, playing havoc on nerves already destroyed by the mere feel of Mark’s hand pressed possessively against her back. Riding in his old Thunderbird convertible again with the wind tossing his scent toward her had only reminded her that once she’d been happy, in love.
Before he had left. Before she’d lost their child.
An image of a dark-haired little baby froze in her mind. She imagined the soft weight of its body, the little hands reaching for her, the sound of its cry.
The radio signal buzzed, jerking her from the image. Claire exhaled to compose herself, then checked her watch, indicating to Drew that she was ready to start.
Keep it strictly business.
Unfortunately, Mark had joined Drew, rattling her newfound philosophy. She didn’t have to see to know that his dark gaze was trained on her, or to remember its effect. His big muscular body could be intimidating, his military persona heightened by his air of authority.
In bed, that commanding attitude had excited her because underneath that tough facade, he was a pussycat.
The buzzer sounded again, and she winced, ordering herself to focus on the show.
“You’re tuned in to WKIA, and this is Calling Claire, with Dr. Claire Kos.” She hesitated. “I’m saddened to report that another woman was murdered in Savannah last night. Her name was Beverly Bell. According to police reports, she was strangled. It’s also possible her death was connected to the murder of Dianne Lyons. If you have information on either woman, or their murders, please call the Savannah police.” She recited the phone number that had been established by the police for incoming calls, then lowered her voice.
“Sometimes it’s difficult to move on after a tragic event in your life, whe that tragedy is a divorce, the loss of a loved one or a breakup. If you’d like to talk, or share tips on how you’ve overcome a loss, please call me at 555-3456. We’d love to hear from you.”
The first caller was experiencing the empty-nest syndrome. Claire suggested the woman get a job or join a volunteer organization or club, something to add a new purpose to her years. “Use this stage of your life to focus on yourself and your mate, rediscover all the reasons you fell in love, rekindle the romance, travel, enjoy the activities you haven’t been able to do with children underfoot.”
The buzzer dinged, and she accepted the next few calls, a series of young women in their twenties searching for Mr. Right. They discussed the common pitfalls women fell into by looking for men in bars, then she helped each of them make goals for the future, honing in on ways to judge if a man was a commitment phobic.
Next, a young woman who’d lost her husband in a car accident phoned, her trembling voice clutching at Claire’s heartstrings. “He was only thirty,” Sonya said. “He had just gotten a promotion, we’d bought a house, wanted a baby…”
“It’s tough to be the one left behind,” Claire said sympathetically. “You have a void in your life, and you’re grieving, but you also feel angry, as if he deserted you.”
“How did you know?”
“Because I’ve experienced those feelings, Sonya. My father died when I was young. I remember the anger, and the sadness. And of course, the questions—why him? Why me?”
“He was so young,” the girl murmured in a strained voice. “It’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not fair, but anger is an honest, natural emotion, a stage of the grieving process,” Claire said. “You have to deal with it so you can move on.”
“That’s just it…I don’t know if I can.”
Claire tensed and checked her watch. Nearly midnight. The same time she’d received the other two desperate calls. Would the killer call again tonight and take another life?
“Yes, you can, Sonya. Talk to your family, your friends, tell them how you feel, vent your anger, your fears, your grief, so you can heal.”
“I’ll try. There’s something else…there’s this guy…”
“Someone who’s interested in you?”
A sniffle passed over the line. “Yes, but I feel so…guilty.”
“Experiencing survivor guilt is not uncommon,” Claire said slowly, not trusting her own emotions. “You don’t believe you’re entitled to enjoy life again, to even laugh or have friends. Or take on another lover.”
“That’s exactly how I feel,” the girl said, her voice trembling.
“But you deserve happiness,” Claire said softly. “Your husband loved you, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then he’d want you to enjoy your li you’d want him to do if you had died.”
Claire wondered if she’d ever be able to take her own advice.
MARK SAT, transfixed by Claire’s words. Did she know what had happened to him overseas?
No, she couldn’t…
He saw his best friend’s face as he lay wide-eyed in the dirt, Abe’s dirt-coated hand gripping Mark’s as he inhaled his last breath. And in his mind, he saw Abe’s wife, her face ashen with grief, the burning accusations in her eyes. Why had he survived when her husband had been taken?
Mark pinched the bridge of his nose, grateful Claire couldn’t see his expression. No doubt his emotions were plainly written on his face.
Instinctively, he knew Claire was right. Abe wouldn’t want him to stop living or to blame himself for his death. But rational thoughts couldn’t absolve his guilt.
“Tuck those memories of your husband into a special place in your heart,” Claire said. “And keep them safe. But keeping those memories doesn’t mean you can’t make room for more.”
Mark studied Claire through the glass window. Was that what Claire had done? She’d put their memories into another place so she could make room for someone else?
It shouldn’t matter to him. In fact, he should be happy for her. Claire deserved the best.
What did he have to offer her anyway?
“That’s all the calls we have time for tonight,” Claire said, jazz music floating into the background, “but join us again Friday night. This is Dr. Claire Kos wishing you a safe night and a happy tomorrow.”
Mark stood, and watched as she organized herself and walked to the door. He was amazed at how well she maneuvered her surroundings with her cane. She must have counted the steps, memorized the layout. He admired her spunk and her ability to adapt.
But she was so vulnerable, a perfect target. What would happen if she was on a crowded street or in a strange building? What if someone followed her?
She would be virtually helpless, not knowing if they were even there….
“Great job, Claire,” Drew said as she approached. “The show went smoothly tonight.”
Claire sighed. “Thank goodness. When I realized it was midnight, I couldn’t help but worry.”
Drew began cleaning up the sound area, filing CDs. “Maybe your bad luck is over.”
Mark eyed him, knowing everyone in contact with Claire had to be treated with suspicion. According to his notes, this show had been Myers’s creative doing, so he most likely had a vested interest, either money-or careerwise, in making it a success.
Would Myers do something drastic to spike ratings?
Something like murder?
“Thanks for letting me sit in.” He shook Myers’s hand.“I take it you’ll be back?” Myers asked.
&n
bsp; “Yes.”
“That’s really not necessary,” Claire said.
He glared at her, then remembered she couldn’t see him. She must have sensed his reaction though, because she shook her head, an impatient gesture he’d seen so many times when she’d been frustrated.
“I’ll see you Friday, Drew.”
Drew said good-night, and Claire headed for the front of the station. Mark trailed behind her, allowing her the small victory by letting her lead. She would not win the war, though, and get rid of him.
Not until this killer was caught.
She halted at the front door and reached for her cell phone.
“Put it away, Claire, I’m driving you home.”
“That’s—”
“I know, not necessary.” He sighed. “Listen, Claire, it’s obvious you don’t want me around, but we’ve agreed this killer has to be stopped, so the sooner we start working together, the sooner we can accomplish that.”
She snapped her phone shut.
“Every moment doesn’t have to be a battle.”
“Then stop treating me like I’m an invalid.”
He couldn’t help it. Claire brought out all his protective instincts. And more.
“You’re being overly sensitive,” he said, aware his comment would irritate her. “And I don’t think of you as an invalid, but you have to cut me some slack. I’m just doing my job.” And trying to be considerate. Something you once would have admired.
She flinched as if he’d hit her, and he felt about two feet tall. “Fine, let’s go to the car.”
He glanced outside and noticed it had started raining. “Wait here, and I’ll bring it around.”
“I can go with you.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s pouring down rain, Claire.”
“I can hear the rain, Mark. I’m not stupid.”
“No, just stubborn.” His temper had reached its limits. He and Claire had never bickered over trivial things, had simply fallen into step together as if they’d been dancing all their life. Now, they were totally out of sync. “I’ll be back in a second.”
