Stay Dead (Elise Sandburg series)

by Anne Frasier

  Just minutes ago he’d been bugging her with his nonstop chatter. But now . . . “You ground me,” she told him. Here he was the one who seemed so scattered. But he wasn’t. Not really. “You bring me back again and again.”

  And in that picture they were painting together, he was there. And once again she caught herself wondering how it would be. The two of them. Together.

  “There you go again,” he said.

  “Sorry. I drifted,” she said, trying to cover herself. “I thought everything was over when I went to the plantation to stay. I thought it would be a little vacation, a time to heal. And here I am. Not only has Tremain escaped, we have another killer on the loose.”

  “We can do this,” David said.

  “Yes.” She nodded. But she wasn’t sure.

  CHAPTER 19

  Later, when she played it back, Elise wouldn’t be able to recall just how it happened. She’d been sitting on the couch, typing up her report. She’d gotten to the part where Tremain had stripped off her clothes and tied her up, and her fingers stopped. They just hovered over the keyboard as she stared blankly at the wall.

  David called her name. More than once. She was pretty sure it was more than once. With a jerky motion, her gaze tracked to the right, latching onto him. And maybe she was crying. Maybe she wasn’t, but everything was a blur. He said something, but she couldn’t hear the words.

  He crossed the room. He closed her laptop and put it aside. He grabbed her by both arms. Maybe he was on one knee in front of her, or maybe he was just bent at the waist, but suddenly they were face-to-face.

  “Don’t write the report,” he told her. Those words got through to her. “You don’t have to.”

  She clenched and unclenched her hands. “I think it’s too soon.”

  “It might always be too soon,” he said, and the compassion in his face threatened to undo her.

  “It didn’t really matter what he did to me,” she said in a rushed attempt to explain her emotions. “I could deal with that, but all I kept thinking about was Audrey. I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing her again.”

  “I know.”

  “And not just Audrey. You too. I thought about you.”

  “Me?” He sounded surprised as he dropped beside her on the couch, one arm stretched across the back.

  Above all else, she hated weakness. Not in others, but in herself. She wanted and needed to be strong, and she remembered what she’d told Dr. Kicklighter about nothing mattering but catching the Organ Thief. She couldn’t lose track of that goal. “I can do it,” she said, shaking it off and reaching for the laptop. “I can write the report.”

  “Don’t.”

  Elise’s viewpoint tunneled out, expanding beyond David’s blue eyes, his gray T-shirt, his jeans, the couch upon which they sat—close but not too close—his cat, Isobel, on the windowsill staring at something on the street below. The dark apartment was cozy and comforting; how could she have ever thought it otherwise?

  “I’ll tell Hoffman you aren’t going to write it,” David said.

  “She’s demanding a full report.”

  “She can go to hell.”

  Elise laughed. Mainly because his reaction was so typically David. Screw authority. “I’ll write it,” she said, her voice firm.

  He stared at her, as if trying to gauge her mental state. Could she take going back there in her head? Maybe. Maybe not.

  “You have the weirdest eyes,” he said out of nowhere. “So many colors.”

  She didn’t tell him Tremain had commented on her eyes too. He’d been particularly fascinated by them. “I’d like to cut them out and put them in a jar,” he’d told her. She didn’t tell David that either.

  “I’m glad Audrey is out of the country,” Elise said.

  David immediately got what she meant. “Where she’ll be safe.” Her daughter couldn’t replace the son David lost, but he loved Audrey. Elise knew that.

  He was still staring at her with concern. And something else. Attraction? Maybe? Her typical response would have been to ignore the sudden sexual tension. But she didn’t. For some strange, inexplicable reason, she didn’t. Instead, she leaned close and placed a palm against the side of his face, barely making contact. He inhaled sharply.

  With one finger, she touched his mouth. She’d known David for so long, and she’d never touched his mouth this way. How strange.

  He inhaled again, and he grabbed her hand. And he kissed it. Seemingly embarrassed by the sweetness of the act, he followed the kiss with a smile. And then he said something completely David. “Are you on something? A double dose of pain medication, topped off by a drink?”

  “Not even a Tylenol.”

  “Okay then.”

  They both laughed like two kids.

  Maybe it was because she’d almost died. Whatever the reason, David had filled a large part of her brain since her abduction. All of the what-ifs. All of the wondering. Would she regret never taking that step, no matter the consequences?

  Yes.

  She would regret it. She had no doubt of that. But really, she had to admit that she was tired of the Elise who did the right thing. Who played by the rules.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind she’d always thought she’d become her truer self later on. Once Audrey was through with high school. And during that exploratory period, she’d maybe take a dance class, or a glassblowing class, or a candlemaking class. And writing. She thought about writing, but writing took a certain level of navel-gazing, whether it was fiction or nonfiction. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready for that depth of introspection.

  But the unexamined life wasn’t a life worth living.

  Who’d said that? Socrates. Yes, Socrates. Smart guy.

  Right now she could choose to simply curl up in one corner of the couch while David took the other. Sitting opposite each other, they’d work on their reports. And that would be okay. That would be sweet and tender and cause an ache deep inside because of the restraint, because of what she knew lay beneath the surface. The what-could-have-been. These were the pivotal choices people made. Even criminals. Especially criminals.

  “How many times have you almost died?” Elise asked.

  He relaxed, and it was odd to think that talking about dying relaxed him more than the unnamed thing between them. “Not that many,” he said. “There was that one time when you thought I was dead. And I thought I was dead. But I’ve probably come closer to killing myself than I’ve come to losing my life on the job.”

  “After Christian?”

  “Yeah. But you pretty much know about that. What a mess I was when I was transferred here.”

  She nodded. “And you’re better? Now?”

  She always had the feeling if David ever admitted to hurting, the façade he’d worked so hard to build would come crashing down, leaving him defenseless and exposed. “I’m better. I’m a lot better.”

  “That’s good.”

  “But you aren’t, are you?”

  “No.” She would admit at least that much.

  “And you don’t want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “A lot of times talking makes it worse. It just makes it worse.” He took both of her hands and looked into her eyes with a seriousness that didn’t seem like David. And for a weird moment, she felt as if she was in a room with a stranger. “But I want you to know that when you fall apart I’ll be strong,” he said.

  Her life was broken up by cases, and she always thought that once this case was over, and this case, and this case, then she could focus on herself.

  But the murders kept happening.

  The cases never stopped.

  Work would always be there.

  Murderers would always be there.

  He was reading her mind. He understood what she was thinking, what she was
finally, finally considering in a way she’d never allowed herself to consider before. He shook his head, but she could see his heart wasn’t in the protest. And she could see the second his mind shifted and came over to her side. She could see the second she no longer had to convince him of anything. She almost laughed as she imagined him hitting a magical switch that caused the lights to dim and a fireplace to appear.

  She stood up, and he did the same. He pulled her close before she had a chance to change her mind, and she dug her fingers into his belt, behind his belt buckle. “This can’t interfere with work.” As she spoke, a voice in her head told her she was behaving uncharacteristically. A voice—her voice—was telling her to stop, to think about what she was doing.

  His lips brushed her brow, and she closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of him, skin and cotton and soft hair. “No. It will be business as usual at work.”

  Ignoring her crutches, Elise gripped David for support as they hurried to the bedroom.

  Stripping off clothes. Skin against skin.

  It all came back to her even though it had been a long time. Like riding a bike. Like swimming. Buckles undone, zippers down. Blouse unbuttoned and removed. Falling over tangled clothes. Laughing. A lot of laughing. Tumbling into bed.

  This was David.

  She couldn’t believe it was happening. She knew she should stop it.

  But why? Why stop?

  The bigger question, why had she fought it for so long? Why had she fought it at all?

  He felt so good. He smelled so good. And the way he touched her. With this kind of trembling reverence. Had anybody ever touched her this way? She didn’t think so. With breathing coming in short bursts. With hesitance? Sweet hesitance, and maybe some disbelief. All shaky and out of breath, and they’d only kissed, only embraced and clung to each other. He was waiting for her to stop him. His breath would catch as if he listened for a protest. Waited to be pushed away.

  She did neither.

  Instead, she grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him down on the bed. He was careful not to crush her, thinking of her injuries, thinking of her bruised ribs. It hurt, but she didn’t care. “It’s okay,” she whispered, letting him know that he couldn’t hurt her, and shouldn’t worry about hurting her.

  She’d often wondered what kind of lover he would be. Wild? Passionate? Out of control? Now she understood. He’d be playful. He’d be innocent.

  Her head hit the pillow, and he eased himself half beside her, half on top of her, careful of her ribs even though she didn’t care. Her hair fanned out, and the pillow sank, and a scent wafted around her, and over her, and through her.

  A familiar scent.

  Old. From years ago. From the days when she was taught a few simple spells by the old woman down the road.

  Elise rode her bike to the woman’s house after school, and the elderly practitioner would spread the herbs on the table, along with essential oils. Elise made a love-me-or-die spell for a boy at school. The boy had never noticed her until the day she stuck the bag of herbs in his locker. But by the next day . . . he was infatuated. And later, that boy married her . . .

  Elise shoved herself up on her elbows. In the dark, in the sliver of light cutting in from the living room, she reached under the pillow, her fingers coming in contact with something small and soft. A velvet pouch with a drawstring. She pulled it out and stared at the object in her hand. Then she groped around, found a lamp, and turned on the light.

  “What the hell is this?” Without waiting for David to answer, she shoved him away and sat up. She opened the pouch and shook the contents onto the rumpled white sheet. Herbs, and a piece of rolled paper soaked in scented oil.

  She unrolled the paper, and there was her name, written over and over. “What the hell?” she repeated, jumping from the bed, unheedful of her ankle. She was only slightly aware of standing there in her bra and panties, too mad to care. But she could still smell his skin, still feel his ribs under her fingertips. Because that was the way of these things. Spells. And relationships. Men and women. Once it started . . .

  “This explains everything,” she said, speaking as much to herself as to Gould. Now he was Gould and no longer David. Half shouting, her tone accusatory. And how could it be otherwise? “All of these things I’ve been feeling ever since I got out of the hospital.” The confusion about him. How she couldn’t get him out of her brain. How being around him was this heady thing where she almost felt drunk. The daydreams. The sensations of him touching her. The way, if she turned her head quickly, she swore she could smell him. In her hair. On her skin.

  “None of it was real. Here I was thinking I was going crazy. And it was you. You and this stupid mojo.” She gathered up the herbs and the bag and tossed them at him. Lying there in bed, shirtless, belt undone, jeans unbuttoned, unzipped.

  “Elise, no. It’s nothing.”

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Strata Luna. She—”

  “Strata Luna? Are you kidding me? This might be a joke to you, but mojos aren’t anything to mess with. And one made by Strata Luna? You might think she’s just a crazy, eccentric woman, but she’s powerful.”

  “Spells aren’t real. I can’t believe you think they are.”

  “Did you forget who you’re talking to? Daughter of a conjurer?”

  “That’s like believing in unicorns.”

  “You are dangerous.” She pointed. “This is dangerous.” Just in case he decided to try to put it back together, she swept up the bag and the herbs and the name paper, bunching everything in her hand. And as the scent swirled around her, she felt the remnants of the mojo’s power. She still wanted him. “Did you think this was real? What just happened between us?”

  “Yes, I think it was real. It is real. You’re in denial, Elise. You don’t want to feel an attraction to me, so you blame it on some oil and paper and words. Yours is a belief of denial. I don’t understand you. Normally so practical. I think it’s this town. The way it embraces the weird. Almost a religion. And I think it’s your heritage. Who you are is something you hang on to because you have nothing else. You say you hate where you come from, you hate your history, but you know what I think? I think you’re secretly proud of it. I think it makes you different from most of the people in the country.”

  “Don’t try to tell me what I think. You don’t know what I think. You don’t really know anything about me.”

  “I know a lot about you. Enough.”

  “Don’t say any more. This—” She gestured with the bag again. “This is no more than a date-rape drug.”

  “Oh, my God.” He tumbled backward in bed, an arm covering his eyes. “Oh, my God.” He lay there for several heartbeats, then rolled to his side, elbow to the bed, so he could see her. “Those weeds you’re holding in your hand? They have no power.”

  She turned her back to him and reached for her top. From behind, came a gasp, followed by silence.

  CHAPTER 20

  David stared at Elise’s back. Her dark, straight hair, falling past her shoulders. The curve of her spine. The straps of her bra. Her bikini panties, both undergarments red. That was a surprise. He figured her for white. White all the way. But the biggest surprise was her back. Or rather, what covered her back.

  A tattoo. And not just any discreet tattoo. Not the kind of tattoo someone got when dealing with a midlife crisis or wanting to experience a tattoo. It wasn’t one of those uncommitted tattoos. This one started just below her neck and covered most of her back, with pieces disappearing into her panties. Black and gray, no color.

  “How long have you had that?”

  She stood up straighter but didn’t turn around. “Awhile.”

  “It’s beautiful.” He didn’t know much about tattoos, but the one on Elise’s back was amazing. The image looked like something from a lithograph, or a turn-of-the-century painting. Across her s
houlders was a massive tree with Spanish moss hanging from its branches.

  The room was semidark, but it looked as if the landscape moved toward a river, or a lake. And there was a moon, a reflection. And maybe a cemetery stone. He wanted a closer look; he wanted to turn on a brighter light, but he didn’t move closer, and he didn’t turn on a brighter light.

  He frowned, puzzled. “You don’t really seem like a tattoo person.” Or a red underwear person. Maybe she was right. Maybe he didn’t know her at all. And that area above her right buttock. Teflon body art he’d seen on someone who was now dead. He knew how the art was done, and it couldn’t have been a whim, not an easy, painless procedure. An incision was made in the skin and the carved Teflon was slipped inside. Elise’s was about the size of a silver dollar.

  “Black Tupelo,” he whispered.

  She looked over her shoulder, down at the raised tree design. “Oh, that. Strata Luna begged me to get it, and I finally agreed.”

  It was a design used by Strata Luna’s prostitutes.

  Elise laughed, reading his mind. “No, I never worked for Strata Luna. She thought it might protect me. That’s what it’s really for. Protection.”

  “It didn’t do a very good job.” He thought about her being captured.

  “Maybe it did.” She slipped her arms into her blouse. And now that she was facing him, he saw that her body was covered in healing cuts and red, raised areas, courtesy of Tremain.

  “I think without the implant I might have been killed. And as far as not being a tattoo person? I guess that just proves how little you really know me.”

  How had this happened? How had the evening fallen apart like this? He’d closed her laptop. Just closed her laptop. Damn Strata Luna and her mojo.

  He watched as Elise began buttoning her black blouse. He wanted to button it for her. What a crazy thought.

  Once the top was fastened, she searched the darkened room for her pants and pulled them on. That’s when he realized there’d been a change of plans. He zipped his jeans and buckled his belt.

  “Yes, I’m leaving,” she said. “I don’t need your”—she made air quotes—“ ‘protection.’ ” He hated air quotes, but he supposed they were appropriate here. Deserved.