No Escape

by Meredith Fletcher

  “Yeah?” Jackson sound tired.

  “Catch you at a bad time?”

  “Tell me you’re on a plane for ’Lanta and I’ll get to feeling better quick.”

  “Gibson just called me.”

  “Why?”

  “To gloat. Do me a favor—dump the phone records on this number and see if you can trace the phone number that called me this morning. It’ll be the only incoming call today. You probably won’t get anything, but it’s worth trying.”

  “I can do that. When are you headed home?”

  “Not now.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Lauren says she’s not leaving. I can’t make her go.” Heath took a breath. “And it’s not just her. I can’t leave this thing unfinished, either. We’ve poked Gibson enough that we’ve got a reaction.”

  “‘We?’ That woman’s not a partner, buddy. She’s not even a cop. She’s a civilian. You’re letting her get in harm’s way. That’s not like you.”

  “If I leave, she’s going to stay. I can’t let her stay without protection.”

  “That’s not your problem.”

  “Would you leave?”

  Jackson swore.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so. I’m going to protect her, and I’m going to get the answers Janet’s family needs.”

  Jackson was quiet for a moment. “Listen, Heath, you and I both have been around the block a time or two. We know there isn’t an answer for what happened to Janet. Gibson’s a predator, pure and simple. He kills because he wants to.”

  “Then I’m going to find a way to put him down. I’ve got to try to give them that. I owe it to them.” Heath stared out the window at the tourists walking the street in front of the hotel. There were enough of them that he guessed one or more of the cruise ships were in the harbor.

  “Okay. I’ll dump this number, see if we find anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Where’s Lauren Cooper now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well...that’s not good.”

  “I know.” Heath picked up his shirt from the back of the chair and noticed the dark bloodstains all over it. There was no way he could walk around in that shirt without getting the police called. “Get back to me when you can.”

  “I will.”

  Heath punched the phone off and slid it into his pocket. He took the shirt to the vanity sink and poured soap all over it, then started washing it by hand. Anxiety thrummed in him. He stared at the mirror. What could she possibly have been thinking?

  Blood ran down his fingers and swirled in the sink.

  * * *

  Gibson stood out on the stone veranda at the back of his villa. From that point he had a breathtaking view of the ocean and the harbor in the distance. It was beautiful there early in the morning and at night when the stars filled the sky. Women he’d taken there had all been in awe of the sky and sea.

  He sipped champagne and stood there in the clothes he’d worn last night. He’d fallen asleep in the chair in his office, watching some of his best performances and admiring his smooth skills while awaiting word from Roylston.

  For a time he’d been enraptured by his performances. Audiences loved him and clamored to know how he did his magic. At least that was what they said. In truth, and Gibson knew this was the truth, they didn’t want to know how he did those amazing feats. They wanted to believe. No one did it better. Not Copperfield, not even Houdini himself.

  The gold coin twinkled in the morning sunlight as Gibson rolled it across his knuckles. Magic had been his salvation. He’d found it as a child, watching performers and learning their tricks. Nothing about the rest of his life had satisfied him, not the riches, not the cars, not even the women.

  Not until he’d learned how to kill. That was the greatest trick of all: the disappearance of another’s life. He still didn’t know where a person went when they vanished on the other side of death.

  He’d been fifteen years old when he’d first killed. The nineteen-year-old girl he’d been dating had told him she was pregnant, obviously planning to burrow her way into the family money because she’d figured out who he really was and had come after him. She’d surprised him with her announcement, telling him while they’d been in a hot tub in a rented hotel room they’d gotten with his father’s money.

  Gibson had lost control then. At first. He’d clamped his hands around her neck and shoved her under the water. She’d screamed, but her screams had only come out as bubbles that made no sound. She’d fought, and she’d carved furrows down his arms. The scars were still there, grayed out over the years, but reminders all the same. Now he didn’t think of them as scars. They were badges, commemorations of his performance.

  After a time, too short a time, she’d stopped thrashing and had lain quietly, almost floating. The water had stilled, and he’d studied her face, so slack, so surprised. The blood from the cuts along his forearms had threaded the water with streams of scarlet fog.

  That was where he’d been when his father’s security people found him after he’d called his father. Years of therapy had followed, but Gibson had worked on his magic in those places, teaching himself more and more. He’d even taught himself to hide his bloodlust from trained observers till he was finally discharged from their care. Everything was illusion.

  The girl whose life he’d taken was still presumed a runaway. That had been over a quarter century ago. His father knew how to make things disappear, as well. Gibson had to give the old man that. He respected that. But there was nothing his father cherished about him except the fact that he was the old man’s only child and he knew it.

  A sailboat ran with the wind out on the horizon, the white sails bright against the gray-green sea and the azure sky. Out on that boat, people would be partying. Probably there would be young people, young women.

  The dark hunger stirred restlessly inside Gibson’s belly and wormed up to his heart. He embraced the hunger and felt it blossom inside him. Little more than a week had passed since he’d last killed. Normally he didn’t feel the need to take a life again so quickly.

  But things had changed when he’d killed the woman detective in Atlanta. She had been so smug, so sure of herself, when she’d finally gotten him on the phone. She’d told him that she wanted him to come in for questioning, and Gibson had known she’d thought herself somehow clever enough to trip him up.

  She’d been stupid. Gibson’s father had tried to break him over the years, and the old man hadn’t managed that, either. If he couldn’t do it, no one else could.

  That woman had been surprised, too, when he’d caught up with her. She’d been alone in her house. Her husband and their two sons had been at a baseball game. A cop’s salary didn’t provide much in the way of a security system, and her husband didn’t make much more than she did. Gibson had been getting past security systems much more sophisticated for years.

  He’d arrived at her house shortly after the husband and children had gone. After he’d stolen her away, he’d had hours to kill her in the rented hotel room, and he’d taken his time.

  He closed his eyes and remembered, and the salt air around him reminded him of the stink of her blood. He hadn’t been able to hear her scream the way he had some of his other victims. There had been too many close neighbors. He’d been forced to cut out her vocal cords first.

  Gibson relished the memory, knowing it would always be his. Then the morning heat on his face took him away from that time and brought him back to the veranda.

  He realized he was no longer alone.

  Turning, he found Roylston standing there with a tube in one hand. The man looked somewhat fatigued from staying up all night.

  Gibson sipped the champagne. “Well?”

  “The cop’s not at his hotel.”

  The news irritated Gibson. After last night’s debacle and the calls from the police about Sisco, he’d hoped to at last put an end to Heath Sawyer’s threats. He’d called the man to distract him while Royls
ton and his team closed in on him.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. We broke into the room and took a look around. We found this.” Roylston opened the tube he carried and pulled out a rolled poster. When he spread it, Gibson saw the photographs of the women he’d killed on display there.

  Of course, not all of the women were there. Only a small sampling of those whose lives he’d vanished were represented there. Heath Sawyer and his dead partner hadn’t figured out everything. Gibson hadn’t started sending the White Rabbit cards until the past few years. Just to make the trick more interesting and to build an audience.

  “Then where is he?”

  Roylston shook his head. “I don’t know. His car was there, too. We found it in the parking lot. He’s not driving it.”

  Heath’s disappearance irritated Gibson. The man was a loose cannon. Gibson didn’t think Heath could do anything to him other than make life somewhat uncomfortable, but he wanted the man out of the way at this point. “Did you trace the van he used last night?”

  “We did, but we didn’t have any more luck than the police did. The van has been used in some criminal activities before. Tracked its VIN number to some impounds regarding drug deals and theft, nothing else. It’s a scab vehicle. Somebody rented it or sold it to the cop off the books.”

  “Then find that person.”

  “We’re looking.”

  Gibson felt like exploding at Roylston, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. The man would only point out that killing the woman detective had caused all their current grief. And that maybe attacking the last woman so close to home hadn’t been smart. He’d already mentioned those things. Gibson didn’t want a replay.

  He turned his back on Roylston. “Let me know when you find Sawyer. And put that poster in my office. I want to keep it. It’ll make a fine souvenir.”

  Roylston stood there for a moment, and Gibson knew the man was angry. The cop had shown him up last night by getting away. Roylston wasn’t used to being outfoxed. As much as anything, the man’s professional pride was going to keep him tracking the Atlanta detective, and he wouldn’t rest until he was in the ground or at the bottom of the ocean.

  “Sure.” Roylston walked away, his footsteps receding until they were covered over by the sounds of the surf.

  Over the past few years they’d been together, Gibson had wondered if the day would come that Roylston would leave. After all, the man had helped cover up some of the murders over those years. He or his team had found the bodies Gibson had left behind and disposed of them. That was one of the primary reasons Gibson had started mailing in the White Rabbit cards. He’d wanted to claim his kills, to have people see those performances.

  In the end, though, Gibson knew Roylston wouldn’t leave. He’d stay, not out of loyalty, but because Gibson’s father paid him well enough to stay no matter what Gibson did.

  Gibson drained his glass and embraced the restless hunger that grew larger inside him. He would kill again.

  Soon.

  Chapter 14

  Lauren held her bag of purchases in one hand while she used the key card with the other. The locking mechanism thunked inside the door, and the light cycled green. She pushed the door open and found Heath Sawyer standing at the vanity sink with his wet shirt in one hand and the big revolver in the other. His face was hard and cold.

  His voice was a growl when he spoke. He lowered the revolver to his side. “Where have you been?”

  Squelching the angry retort that sailed to the tip of her tongue, Lauren entered the room and allowed the door to close behind her. “I left a note.”

  “You shouldn’t have left this room.”

  “We needed some things.” She walked past him to the table on the other side of the room. “No, let me rephrase that—you needed some things. I went out to take care of it while you were sleeping.”

  “You could have woken me up!”

  Lauren looked at the gun meaningfully. “Waking you might not have been the safest thing to do.” She couldn’t believe she’d felt so safe in his arms last night. Right now he looked cold and distant.

  “Going out there by yourself was stupid.”

  Hurt and angry, Lauren looked at him and folded her arms. “Waking you so you could accompany me in that shirt would have been even more stupid.”

  Glumly, he looked at the sodden mess in his knuckled fist. The cloth dripped onto the carpet.

  “Wash that shirt all you want. That blood’s not coming out of that material. Or those pants.”

  Heath grimaced. “This is only the third time I’ve washed it. It’s getting cleaner.”

  “With all the blood and the wrinkles you’re going to have, you’re going to look like an accident victim. You’ll draw attention, and I don’t think you want that.” Lauren reached into the shopping bag and took out a pale blue lightweight long-sleeved, tapered dress shirt, khaki slacks, underwear and socks. She tossed the clothing to Heath, who dropped the soaked shirt in the sink and managed to catch everything. “I got you a matching jacket, as well.”

  “Suits aren’t really my thing.”

  “I could tell that by the suit you wore to Megan’s funeral. If those guys come hunting us again, you should look different. I thought maybe something more upscale might work. I have clothing that doesn’t scream beach bunny.”

  “I kind of liked the orange-and-white bikini.”

  Feeling her cheeks flame with embarrassment, but pleased that he had noticed, Lauren tried to ignore him. She gestured at another bag. “I also picked up shoes and a belt. They were all out of gun holsters, so you’ll have to make do.”

  A brief grin flickered in those green-flecked gold eyes. “Sounds expensive.”

  “It was. You’re going to pay me back.” She stared at his chest, at the interesting scar on his side, and made herself turn away from him. “Go shower. I also brought breakfast.”

  For a moment, she thought he was going to argue, but she heard him pad away. The bathroom door closed. After a few minutes, during which she couldn’t help imagining him taking his clothes off and what the sleek lines of his body would look like, the shower came on, and she knew everything she’d imagined was about to turn glistening wet.

  Then she remembered the bag of toiletries she’d picked up for him, too. She knew delivering them to him could wait, but she couldn’t help picking up the small bag and going to the bathroom door. She hesitated a moment, then knocked.

  “Yeah?” Heath’s voice rose over the sound of the shower.

  “I forgot. I got you a razor, some shaving cream and a few other things you might need.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “I can leave them out here, or I can open the door enough to put them in the room.”

  “Put them in the room.”

  Opening the door just a few inches, resisting the urge to peer around the door, she reached into the room and placed the bag on the sink. Although she didn’t look toward the shower, the mirror and the angle gave her a good view.

  The translucent shower curtain only softened the hard planes of his body a little. On the other side of the barrier, Heath looked nude, but he didn’t look naked. The room smelled of soap, and the air was thick with humidity. Steeling herself, Lauren withdrew.

  She sighed in frustration, returned to the table, and focused on the bag containing the breakfast she’d picked up at the market. Detective Heath Sawyer was just too attractive for her own good.

  * * *

  Heath stood under the heated spray of the shower and wondered what he’d gotten himself into. She’s not your partner. She’s a civilian. You’re letting her get in harm’s way. Jackson’s words haunted him.

  He ducked his head under the spray and told himself that he didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t putting her there. She was putting herself there. All he could try to do was keep her alive.

  He kept thinking about how she looked. Those khaki pants she’d worn hugged her hips, and that orange top was on the ve
rge of driving him crazy. Her clothing wasn’t revealing, was tasteful, but it showed off just enough of her body that he wanted to see the rest of it.

  He growled at himself and turned the water on cold full blast, till all he could think about was the cold. He almost froze to death before he could get those kinds of thoughts of her out of his mind.

  After drying off, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped in front of the sink. The small bag of toiletries sat to one side. He fished out the shaving cream and razor first, then lathered up and managed to scrape his face smooth without nicking anything.

  She’d bought deodorant, facial cleansing soap, toothpaste and toothbrush, mouthwash and a few other things. Heath didn’t know what all of it was, but Jackson Portman would. The man was a metrosexual to the nth degree. Guys who got on the wrong side of him were often surprised by how nasty he could be in a dustup.

  Heath administered what he could figure out, then dropped the towel and got dressed. He looked a lot different when he was finished. Once he transferred all of his personal effects from his cast-off clothing to his new clothes, he bundled up the pants and socks and stepped out of the bathroom.

  Lauren wasn’t in the room. She was at the table on the balcony that overlooked the harbor. She’d changed clothing, too, evidently in the room while he’d been in the bathroom showering, and that definitely stirred thoughts in his mind. She now wore a dark orange ruffled sundress with spaghetti straps that hit her midthigh.

  The balcony was tiny, hardly tourist-worthy, but it held a small round table and two chairs under a faded umbrella decorated with seahorses. All of the red ones had bleached out to a dirty gray, but enough of the color remained to show what they had been.

  “That may not be safe out there.” Heath picked up the soaked shirt and added it to his pile of discards, rolling it in the center and putting it in one of the empty plastic bags.

  “If anyone is looking for us, they didn’t find us so far. I don’t think they’re going to find us this morning.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I’m not eating breakfast in that room.”