by Joanna Wayne
Most of all he wondered just what the killer’s previous contact with Susan had been. Why had he chosen her as his unwilling partner in this masterfully designed murder scheme?
“I need names, Susan, something to go on,” he pleaded, stretching out in his chair. “I can’t leave here without some help from you.”
“We’re on the wrong track. The killer is not one of my patients. I work with professionals, socialites, even a few sports figures. I’m not saying none of them would ever get angry enough to kill someone, but they’re not psychopathic serial killers.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“It’s my job.”
“So let’s go back to your job when you worked for your father.”
“I’ve thought about that a lot today. I did come into contact with dangerous psychopaths at that time. They were my father’s favorite subjects.”
“You mean patients.”
“No, subjects. He studied them constantly. As far back as I can remember, he was fascinated by the criminal mind.”
“That must have made for entertaining dinner conversation.”
“We seldom had dinner conversations, entertaining or otherwise. My father worked long hours. I usually ate alone.”
Susan stared out the back window and into a courtyard that was bordered by the brick walls of other buildings. Jack studied her profile. He’d give a lot to know what she was thinking right now. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
Anxiety and lack of sleep had left their mark, deepening the laugh lines around her dark brown eyes. The dragon lady no longer looked her part. Vulnerable. That described her now. Softer, more touchable than she’d looked three nights ago when he’d shown up in his Santa suit.
“I know you think I’m difficult to deal with,” she said, turning and looking into his eyes. “But I really do appreciate your coming over so quickly.”
“No trouble.” He did what he knew he shouldn’t He reached out and wrapped his hands around hers. She didn’t pull away.
“I just feel so helpless. This man is calling out to me to stop him, but I can’t.”
“Not by yourself. That’s why I’m here.” He stroked her trembling fingers.
“It’s more than that.” Her voice dropped lower, until it was little more than a shaky whisper. “Somehow I’m to blame for this. These attacks are personal, directed at me for some wrong he thinks I’ve committed. But it’s innocent women who’ll lose their lives.”
“Don’t start thinking like that. It’s not your fault, Susan.” Jack eased from his chair and rounded the table. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he let his fingers dig into the fabric of her sweatshirt, massaging muscles so tense he could feel the knots that bound them. “You can’t blame yourself for a man gone mad.”
“Tell me about the woman he killed.”
“I’ve told you about her.”
“I know her name, address, age, profession and where she worked. All impersonal facts. I want to know about her, what she was like.”
Jack hesitated. The other night Susan had asked few questions about the victim. At the time, he’d wondered why. Now it all made sense. The dragon lady was not nearly as tough as she seemed. That night she’d cowered behind her barricades. Today she was opening herself up to pain, because she thought she deserved it. And that it might help.
“Let it go for now, Susan. We can’t help Maggie. We have to concentrate our efforts on making sure the man doesn’t take another life.”
Susan stood and turned to face him. “Just tell me— was she a mother?”
“She was separated from her husband. There were no children.”
“Was she pretty?”
“Very pretty.” Jack left it at that, omitting the explanation that Maggie Henderson strongly resembled Dr. Susan McKnight, and that she probably reminded the killer of the woman he wanted to punish. That he planned on killing Susan in the same way before this was all over.
Without stopping to consider consequences, Jack opened his arms and she stepped inside them. He held her close, too close. He could feel her heart beating against his chest, feel the warmth of her body pressed against his, feel the silky softness of her hair beneath his chin.
His thumb rode the lines of her neck and then tucked under her chin, tilting her face up until her lips were inches from his. Pink and moist. She parted them slightly, inviting, and he rushed in, taking her mouth with his.
The kiss was long and deep. Finally, she pulled away and buried her head against his chest. He longed to hold her like this forever, ached to touch his lips to hers again.
Damn, he wanted her. Plain and simple.
The room grew hot, as if the furnace had been cranked up to full blast. Perspiration beaded on Jack’s forehead. He’d crossed a line he never allowed himself to cross with someone pertinent to a case.
Not the touch. He’d held frightened women before, offered comfort when he could. But this was different. Even a fool like him knew that.
A stirring in the next room caught his attention. When he looked up, Timmy was standing by the door, dragging a teddy bear by the ear with one hand and rubbing his eyes with the other. Susan saw him at the same time, and she jerked from Jack’s embrace as if they’d been caught in the act of making love.
“I’m hungry.” Timmy toddled over to Susan.
“How about some pancakes?”
“With strawberries?”
“I’m out of strawberries. How about bananas?”
“Okay. Is Santa going to eat with us?”
“Not Santa, Timmy. Detective Carter. But he’s welcome to stay if he’d like.”
Her voice was cool and collected, and decidedly distant. A quick recovery, Jack decided. A minute ago she’d clung to him like red sauce to spaghetti. Now she referred to him in the third person and directed her gaze in the opposite direction.
Their brief bout with libidos was already exacting its toll. He deserved a swift kick in the pants, and if the Chief had any idea that he’d jeopardized the investigation with a kiss, he’d have made sure he got that and more.
“Please, Santa. Stay for breakfast.”
“Detective Carter is his name, Timmy.” Susan corrected the tyke again while she pulled the griddle from a shelf underneath the cabinet.
“I’ll stay while your mother cooks your breakfast, but then I have to run. I’ve got work to do.”
Timmy dragged in one toy after another for Jack to inspect and admire. Finally Susan set the boy’s breakfast on the table. Jack stepped closer to Susan and lowered his voice so that only she heard his words. “Next time I see you, I’ll have the printout with names from the Center. And hopefully you’ll have come up with a name or two and some detailed information for me as well.”
“Will you come back and play with me?” Timmy asked, kicking his feet against the chair.
“You bet. Is two o’clock all right, Susan?”
“If this is necessary.”
“It is.” He walked over and exchanged a high five with Timmy. “I’ll see you later, podner!”
He cast one last look in Susan’s direction as he departed. No doubt about it. He’d have to be on guard every second. The dragon lady had crawled under his skin in three short days. Go figure.
THE MAN STOOD in the shadows and watched the front door of Susan McKnight’s apartment swing open and the detective walk out. He loved it. The two of them searching for him day and night, racking their brains, no doubt trying to learn his identity and his next move.
Crazy. Craaazy! So crazy, they’d never catch him even though he was right under their noses. Even though he watched every move Susan made. He’d tease her, torment her, take her through hell, the same way she had done with him. She’d pay a mere fraction of what he’d paid, but it would give him a great deal of satisfaction.
After that, he’d kill her. Sooner, if the web tightened. One hint that she and the detective were getting too close, and he was checking out of this town, leaving over Susan McKnigh
t’s dead body. Only then could he put all of this behind him and go on with his life.
Finally, he’d have his share of happy holidays.
Chapter Five
Saturday, December 18
3:00 p.m.
“Auntie Mom, how do you spell specially?”
“Are you doing your homework? That’s a long word for first grade.”
“I’m writing a letter to Santa. I know he’s only a spirit, but Missy Sippen says you still have to write a letter. She didn’t write one last year, and she got the wrong kind of Barbie.”
Susan put down her notes. “I don’t think a letter to Santa is the same as a catalog order, Rebecca. The spirit of Christmas means you give and receive from the heart. Getting exactly what you want is not important.”
“I know that. You told me already. But Missy Sippen says if Santa’s going to come bumping down your chimney and let his reindeer poop on your roof, you might as well get what you want.”
“Missy sounds like a real little sweetheart.” And obviously a much better communicator than Susan was. When Rebecca had asked about the variety of red-suited, bearded, fat men she saw on a trip to the mall, Susan had told her the truth. In Susan’s mind, it was the sensible thing to do.
Apparently Missy Sippen’s folks didn’t adhere to that philosophy, and Susan was beginning to wish she’d opted for the Christmas folktale as well.
“Do you think Santa brings things besides toys, if you ask him?” Rebecca chewed on the eraser end of her pencil.
“There are many types of gifts, Rebecca. Toys, clothes, musical instruments, food items.”
“Yeah, but that’s not what I want either.”
Susan walked over to get a better view of Rebecca’s handiwork. She was on her knees, using the coffee table for a desk. When she came closer, Rebecca grabbed her paper and hid it behind her back.
“I can’t show you. It’s a surprise.”
“I think it would be all right with Santa if you showed me.” Now she was playing the Santa game. She might as well. Rebecca clearly had no concept of “spirit.” Reindeer poop was much more concrete and believable to a precocious six-year-old. Besides, Susan had no energy left for pursuing the argument.
“I can’t show you. It would ruin the surprise.”
“Okay. It’s your secret.” She only hoped Rebecca wouldn’t be too disappointed on Christmas morning. More reason not to buy into the Santa fantasy. Susan turned and went back to the overstuffed chair in the corner. She needed to work while Timmy was down for his afternoon nap. She had several more patient profiles to chart, though she ran into nothing but dead ends.
“So how do I spell specially?” Rebecca asked, clearly irritated that she had to ask twice. “I want Santa to know I’ve been specially good.”
“In that case, the word you need is especially.” “Especially,” Rebecca repeated, mimicking her teacher’s spelling-dictation tone. “I know how that starts. With an s.”
“It sounds that way, but actually it begins with an e.” Susan spelled the word and then went back to her notes. From Santa to a serial killer.
Depression settled about her like city smog. For the past ten months, life had consisted of one crisis after another as she’d tried to take on the role of instant mother. There had been nights when she’d come close to weeping from frustration and sadness, days when the responsibilities of caring for two children seemed more than she could handle.
Now, forced to deal with a killer, foster-motherhood seemed like a walk in the park. If she could just discover some clue to sink her teeth into.
She’d spent hours examining her patient caseload. Personality disorders, clinical depression, addictions, obsessions, inability to set limits, phobias, eating disorders. You name it, she dealt with it. But not one of her patients had dangerous psychotic tendencies. She and the detective would have to direct their energies in other areas.
Other areas, but definitely not the ones they’d fallen into this morning. She’d agonized half the day over what had happened. One minute they were talking, and the next she was in his arms. The memory sent traitorous trembles dancing along her nerve endings.
The events of the last two days had battered her defenses and left her emotions raw and exposed. Fear and anxiety stalked her every step. It was only natural she’d desire strong arms about her. Only natural she’d crave personal contact. And how much more personal could you get than a kiss?
She touched her lips, outlining them with her fingertips, reliving the sensation of Jack’s mouth on hers. She closed her eyes and forced her mind to control her thoughts.
The feelings churning inside her were reactions to stress. The same thing might well have happened no matter who the investigating cop had been. This had nothing to do with Jack Carter.
Someone with less psychological knowledge might fall into the trap of situational attraction, but not Susan McKnight. If she ever got seriously involved, it would be a sensible relationship with a man who held the same interests as her, the same values, the same basic personality type. They would bond slowly and completely, not be pulled together by some animal need born of fright and immediacy. She would not give in to it again.
7:00 p.m.
THE AFTERNOON HAD brought rolling claps of thunder, jagged cracks of lightning and a downpour that flooded the below-sea-level streets of New Orleans. It hadn’t brought Jack Carter. He’d called to say he was detained by an emergency. Susan fumed. What bigger emergency could you have than a serial killer on the loose who could strike again at any moment?
She arranged the last dirty dish in the dishwasher and poured in the detergent as the doorbell rang. Her breath caught. Don’t let it be another message, she prayed silently. Not from him.
The bell rang again.
“Somebody’s here,” Rebecca called, running from her bedroom, two steps ahead of her brother. “I hope it’s Detective Santa.”
“I’ll get it, Rebecca.” Susan hurried to the door, stopping to peek through the peephole. At first all she saw was fir needles. Then a head appeared around the green mass.
Jack, of course, standing next to an evergreen that dwarfed even him. Her first inclination was to leave the door locked. But a dead bolt and a couple of inches of solid wood would not deter Detective Santa.
She eased the door open, and he barged in, dragging his tree behind him.
“Wow!” Rebecca squealed, jumping up and down.
Timmy joined in the chorus, echoing his sister’s “Wow” and then starting his own chant. “A Christmas tree! A Christmas tree.” He yanked on the leg of Susan’s pants to make sure she saw the monstrosity.
Jack stood the fir against the wall. “Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas,” he said, reaching down to pick up Timmy and swing him into the air over his head before depositing him back on the foyer floor. Timmy squealed and laughed all the louder.
Susan lost the attempt to control her temper. “What is the meaning of this, Detective Carter?”
“Detective Carter?” He faked a pout. “What happened to Jack?”
“Just answer the question. Why have you brought a tree to my apartment?”
He scratched the five-o’clock shadow that dotted his chin. “It’s Christmas. You didn’t have one. You and the kids need some holiday spirit. My cousin runs a Christmas tree lot, and I got it cheap. Take your pick, or all of the above.”
She didn’t laugh at his poorly timed humor. Undaunted, he flashed his boyish smile and resumed his conversation with the kids.
“What do you think, Beck and Tim? Is it big enough?”
“Pick me up so I can touch the top,” Timmy begged.
Jack lifted him to his shoulders.
“It’s wonderful,” Rebecca crooned, running her fingers over the needles, as tenderly as if they’d been chiseled from gold. “Wait until I tell Missy Sippen. She said their tree is six feet tall, but this one must be twenty feet.”
“Nope, only nine, but that’s way taller than Missy Sippen’s,”
Jack assured her. He stepped past Susan and peered into the living room. “So where do you usually put your tree? I’ll set it up for you. No charge.”
“How thoughtful.” Fortunately, her sarcasm flew over the heads of the kids. Unfortunately, it didn’t appear to faze Jack.
“If we pulled that green chair out from the wall, it would fit in that corner. But if you have a better place…”
“I’ve never had a tree in this apartment.”
“First Christmas in a new place. That’s always fun.”
“I’ve lived here for three years. I don’t decorate for Christmas.”
“Really?” Jack stared at her as if she’d just confessed to burning the American flag. “I’m sorry if I overstepped my bounds. Is it a religion thing?”
“No, it’s not an issue of religion. I usually celebrate the day quietly with friends.”
“Quietly? I tried that once when I was twelve and had chicken pox. It was a real bummer.”
“Can we decorate it tonight? Pleeeeese, Auntie Mom.” Rebecca danced around the tree.
“We don’t have any ornaments.”
“We can make some. We made all our decorations for the tree at school. The first-graders made the chain. I’m real good at that, and I have red and green paper in my school bag. You could give us some of your glue.”
“We could string popcorn,” Jack said, coaxing. “And I can make super bells and stars out of aluminum foil.”
“Oh, let’s do it!” Rebecca sang.
Jack shot a pleading look in Susan’s direction. “Christmas trees mean a lot to kids.”
One look at the children’s faces, and Susan’s resistance drowned in a sea of guilt. She should have been the one thinking of Rebecca and Timmy, not some man who barely knew them. She should have realized how much something as simple as a tree would mean to them. She hadn’t. The truth was, buying a tree had not even occurred to her. Not in the midst of a murder spree. So why had it occurred to an admittedly hard-edged cop?
“If Auntie Mom can come up with a pair of scissors, we’re in business,” Jack said, his eyes locking with hers and apparently reading her acquiescence.
