Harry’s face was a careful picture of sincerity as he met her eyes. “Now I must get your uncle a picture, to apologize. Unless I’ve offended you too deeply?”
Sky blue eyes gazed back at him, accepting his words without inviting him closer. “No offense taken. You surprised me, that’s all.” She paused. “It must be a very different world.”
Harry shrugged. “It is. But I love it.”
He went on briskly. “Since I’m now honour-bound to bring you an autograph—and it really is no trouble—I need some information.”
The girl looked at her watch, and pushed back her chair. “I can’t miss my bus.” Her voice was apologetic. “His name is Tony. I appreciate this, Mr. Silver.”
Rising as well, he said, “Harry. I’m not big on formality.”
She shook his outstretched hand. “I’m Susan.”
Harry’s pulse jolted at her touch. Quickly releasing her hand, he asked, “Where and when shall I deliver Tony’s autograph? I could drop it off to you at work.” Where could he find her? He had to know.
Susan shook her head, her long blond hair rippling electric waves up his spine. “There are a lot of people. You might get stuck signing autographs for a long time.”
“After work, then? I’m a night owl.”
She laughed. “I get off at seven in the morning. Can I meet you here tomorrow a little earlier than this?”
Harry grimaced. “I much prefer my hours. Where do you work to pull a shift like that?”
Unsuspecting, she told him. He watched her hurry away, her parting thank you echoing in his ears.
Susan... Her name alone captivated him. She was so beautiful, so very alive. He would be at the hospital when her shift ended. This called for swift planning, but that part of his brain was already in full gear, eager to set the stage.
Harry had no way of knowing what Susan would do to his life. Even now, more than two years after he had killed her, he cursed the moment they met, dreaded the memory of her dying words.
Chapter 10
What Ruth could see of Harry’s face between his fingers was pale and sweat-sheened. She’d asked about Susan, and he’d retreated into himself. Could this be his conscience? Father, trouble him until he surrenders to You.
Harry shook himself, a dog emerging from a river. He stood slowly, as if he wasn’t sure his legs would support him, but the glare he turned on Ruth was alert and focused. Her mouth went dry. He circled the coffee table, never breaking eye contact.
“You really want to know what happened to her? Remember, you’re next.”
Ruth drew the green and gold afghan tighter against her. She couldn’t bear to hear his words, yet she had to know. Trembling, she waited, eyes fixed on his face.
He took a few steps around the room, jerky movements that accented the anger in his voice. “I thought she’d be the same as all the others. But when I took the gag out of her mouth, she looked at me with those big blue eyes and pleaded with me not to harm her. In His name.”
He turned to Ruth. The torment etching his face surprised her.
“She was mine, not some impotent god’s. Mine. So I took her. His name just made her pay extra.” His fingers clenched and spread as if remembering what they’d done.
“When I finished, she opened her eyes and looked right at me... said she forgave me. Started preaching at me. Something inside me snapped. I grabbed the flashlight in both hands, and pounded her with everything I had. I had to make her stop.” He stopped pacing.
Ruth stared up at him, unable to breathe. Susan!
Harry’s blue eyes glowed pale with misery. “Sometimes at night I hear her voice. I can’t shake it. Blood everywhere, she could barely breathe. She was dying.
“One hand clutched my arm, pulled me nearer. I should have finished her then but I bent to hear her final whisper. To know I’d won. She gasped a bit, and I thought she was gone, but somehow she pushed the words out: ‘It’s not me you’re hurting—it’s Jesus. But He still loves you.’”
He slammed his fist into the wall, rattling the pictures on their hangers. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on her.”
John Linton’s challenge to turn her grief into prayer echoed in Ruth’s pain-numbed mind. Don’t let the sacrifice be in vain. Tears slid unheeded down her cheeks. “Oh, Susan.”
Harry’s features stiffened, and the anguish in his eyes hardened into watchfulness. “You knew her?”
Ruth met his gaze and held it. “My husband and I have no children.” She swallowed hard. “Susan was our niece. The daughter we never had. What you did—” Ruth’s voice broke. She felt her face crumple, but would not look away. Let Harry see the cost of his lust.
His jaw muscle twitched. Ruth lifted the edge of the afghan to wipe her tears, but kept the eye contact. She tried to slow her breathing. Grief ached in her bones.
Harry stepped back, fists balled at his sides. “Well? Aren’t you going to curse me?”
Ruth’s voice sounded tired in her own ears. “I’ve done all that. It didn’t hurt you, but it nearly destroyed me.” She paused, to be sure of his attention. “I need... I need to tell you I forgive you.”
Harry’s head snapped back as if she’d slapped him. Instead of retaliating, he dropped onto the couch and lit another cigarette. He sat motionless, staring at the smoke trailing up from the tip. His fingers were trembling.
Ruth waited, watching him. So his soul was troubled. Father, please give this man no rest until he turns to You for salvation.
The subject of her prayer shivered as if he had heard. He pushed himself up from the couch. “Time for a snack. Come on. I want you where I can see you. But I’m warning you, I’m not in the mood for chatter.”
Ruth deliberately caught his eye as she passed him. She had her God, and for the moment at least, her composure. Harry, on the other hand, was in the middle of a war for his soul, and he didn’t even know it. She sensed it was important for him to see she was secure and at peace.
Let him wish for that peace. Let it drive him to his knees in submission to the God who still loved him so much after all he’d done.
~~~
Harry grabbed two sandwiches and a bottle of beer from the fridge and pushed his captive back into the living room.
“Sit down and keep your mouth shut.”
He set his snack on the coffee table, planted himself on the couch and reached for the television remote. Silence right now was one thing he didn’t want. Nor did he want any more disturbing conversation.
He scowled at her sitting in the rocking chair, her feet tucked up under her. She had that gold-green afghan draped around her and she eyed him warily from behind its flimsy cover. As if that would stop him when it was time.
When it was time. His stomach twisted. He’d never had this problem, never had to create the desire. Her flashes of fear aroused him. He’d increase them. Maybe he’d wait until tonight. If he left the lights out, he could pretend he had the luscious blonde from the store.
One way or another, he’d make her pay for his lost fantasies. And for agitating his memories of Susan.
The tic started in his jaw, its erratic beat strong even when he clenched the muscle to the point of pain, and he swore through his teeth. He hated things he couldn’t control.
Stupid woman. Why did it have to be her? He’d been so sure he was right behind the fleeing cashier in the darkness. Harry licked his lips. The girl was a knockout, and he knew just how he’d have played her. He dragged his thoughts away from wistful might-have-beens.
A decent porn movie could jump-start some ideas to try on his dull-sheep captive. If he couldn’t find one on the satellite channels, there might be some videos here in the cottage that would do. He regretted the loss of his private library, seized as evidence for his trial.
Halfway through Harry’s search around the dial, a familiar sound froze his thumb on the remote. The howl of powerful engines caught his ears even before he identified the sleek cars tearing around the track.
&n
bsp; The announcer’s voice was taut with excitement. “What a race. McClelland’s still hanging on in front, but I don’t know for how much longer. Hauser is right on his tail—and would you look at that!”
His voice was nearly a scream. “It’s Hauser in the lead, but Jeremy McClelland keeps the pressure on. They’re wheel-to-wheel again—look at them go.”
Harry leaned back on the couch. Max Hauser had been a rising star on the circuit when Harry’s own career came to its abrupt end. Hauser had talent, and the sort of controlled recklessness that gave him the edge to win. But Hauser was a Christian. Harry had kept his distance.
He was caught up in the race now. A movie—and his uninspiring companion—could wait. He knew McClelland from way back, a veteran with many successful seasons under his belt. The man still might have a trick or two to catch Hauser off guard.
This was shaping up to be a good scrap. Must be a re-broadcast of Sunday’s race, to be shown midweek. Harry didn’t care. He’d been out of touch with race results since his escape from prison.
Harry chomped the bland sandwiches mechanically, his eyes never leaving the screen. They were racing in Milwaukee. He’d pulled off a few spectacular victories of his own on this same track. Memory clouded the race before him. He could almost feel the throb of the mighty engine, the wheel gripped in racing-gauntleted hands.
This had been his life, his reason for existence. When he sat in the cockpit, pinned in place by the safety harness, he was suddenly, intensely alive. For the duration of the race, speed was everything, and he was master of the circuit.
Watching later on tape, he sometimes marvelled at the feats he’d performed. Small wonder he’d pulled off back-to-back series championships. He’d been good, among the best. He could have gone on forever.
Chapter 11
Harry was back in the racing world, at the peak of his career. There’d been tight races like this one, where his triumphant finishes had been almost inevitable. In a pack of almost equally matched cars, his driving brilliance had tipped the balance time and again.
Remembering the rush of victory made his heart beat faster. Then he frowned, thinking of the emptiness when he left the track at the end of the day. The restlessness.
Just when he had it all, something was missing. In Harry’s early twenties, he was racing better, with an improved car, and a good chance at another championship. The fans loved him.
What more could he want? He had friends among the drivers and pit crews, and more women than he knew what to do with. The track babes that hung around the pits didn’t care much about the sport. They wanted the drivers. Harry’s spectacular driving style and what the press called ‘a look of haunted loneliness in his eyes’ attracted more than his fair share.
Some would do anything to claim his attention. The other drivers jokingly, sometimes jealously, referred to the adoring cluster as Harry’s Harem.
Maybe that was the sour note. The women were too willing, too eager. And he was tired of the same old thing. When Harry confessed his growing boredom to one of his friends in the pit crew, Eddie grinned and invited him back to his hotel room.
“What turns you on? Redheads, brunettes—hey, I never seen you pick up a blonde but there’s no accounting for taste. Singles, groups, mixed, slashing...” Eddie’s words rattled faster than an auctioneer’s as he flipped magazine after magazine onto his bed from a mid-sized suitcase.
Harry headed back to his suite carrying a plastic bag with half-a-dozen magazines and two videos. He poured himself a vodka and orange from the mini-bar and slid a DVD into his laptop. It was definitely higher-octane, but he felt disappointed, as though he’d been hoping for something more.
On the second DVD, he found it. Heat seared his veins even as his brain said the blood was paint, the brutality staged. The violence tore at him, repelled yet fascinated him. It wasn’t the gore. The thought of the power to inflict such pain...
When he met Eddie the next week to return what he’d borrowed, Harry asked where to get his own supply.
Eddie’s lips crept into a knowing grin. “Keep the disks. They’re copies. I’ll connect you with my supplier when we get back to our testing site.” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket—probably his lunch receipt—and scribbled on the back. “Check out these places online, too. Just clear your browser cache afterward. And burn everything to a disk or flash drive. Something you can ditch if you have to. It’s not kiddie porn—don’t touch that stuff, they’ll find you—but still, a mouthy customs agent could shoot down your career with some of this.”
Harry slipped the DVD cases into his jacket out of sight. He handed Eddie the bag with the magazines. “Thanks, man.”
“Call it my investment in your career. If you’re happy, we’re all happy.”
Over time, Harry built a select stock of videos and magazines. He and Eddie swapped back and forth, but Harry kept the most powerful ones to himself. Friend or not, Eddie didn’t need to know everything.
Harry thought he’d been at the top of his form before, but Eddie’s investment kicked things up a notch. The hypnotic images off-track fuelled Harry to better performance in the car. If he was less inclined to socialize after-hours now, so what?
Some things were unavoidable. Harry stood in a room of suits and fancy dresses, cocktail glass in hand, enduring his key sponsor’s wife’s gentle flirtation. Gayle was a large woman, a brunette at least fifteen years older than him. Lovely eyes and a pleasant nature.
She rested a hand on his arm and laughed at something he’d said—he forgot it already. He smiled back. They’d played this game before. She didn’t expect to seduce him, nor did she want to jeopardize his relationship with her husband. Harry suspected the glitz around them intimidated her, despite her net worth. If a little attention from a younger man eased her insecurity, he’d give it.
And tonight it kept him from having to fake interest in the hot blonde who’d shadowed him all evening. Somebody’s sister. Harry didn’t know whose, but blondes were trouble. Always had been. Besides... he sought her in his peripheral vision. She had nothing on his latest porn flick.
He smiled into Gayle’s eyes—a sincere smile—part of him wished she were his aunt. “I’ve monopolized you long enough. I need to schmooze—um, circulate.” Harry stepped through the crowd to join a group with another of his sponsors. A few more conversations, maybe half an hour tops. Then he was out of here. He had a hot date with a video.
Coat over his arm, two paces from the exit, a hand clamped Harry’s shoulder. He bit back a curse and stuck on a smile before he turned around. Nielson, top driver for one of the other teams.
The man looked at Harry’s coat and back to his face. “What’s your hurry?”
“You know. Things to do, people to see.”
Nielson swept a hand to encompass the room. “We used to be those people, Silver. Are you too far above us now?”
Harry shrugged. “I never liked these formal affairs.”
Nielson stepped nearer and lowered his voice. “How does three days on a yacht sound? I’ve booked one for next week. Can’t get much more informal than string bikinis—on deck, anyway. Just a few of us guys, and at least as many adoring females. Come on, Harry, you know you want in.”
Cold prickled down Harry’s back. He looked at his feet as if they’d shifted—like a ship’s deck in high seas. Looked back at Nielson’s grinning face. “I can’t. Thanks. Boats—I can’t. I have to go.”
He spun and headed for the door, Nielson’s insults sliding off his back. Let them think he was afraid of boats. Harry didn’t care. But he could not face three days of non-stop companionship—three days cut off from his porn. Man, he had it bad.
Nielson and crew boasted about their high-seas frolics. Others on Harry’s team went clubbing or out on the town. Did they even miss him in the endless social whirl?
Harry left the track one day after practice to find a gorgeous redhead draped across the hood of his car. Low-cut tank top, skin-tight shorts�
��his temperature rose just looking at her. She peeled herself off the car, holding his gaze, and strolled toward him. One hand slid around his neck. The other tugged at his collar. “I’m free tonight, Harry. For whatever turns you on.”
Her breath caressed his throat. Whatever turns you on. That was the problem.
Harry trapped her hands with his and pushed them away. Remember your image. He put on his most attractive smile—the one that made them weak-kneed—and did his best to look regretful. “I can’t. But I’m deeply honoured.”
Her tongue traced the full curve of her lips. “I could make you forget her.”
Her? The celebrity gossip machine attributed his new solitude to a broken heart. Harry eyed her up and down and paid her with another smile. “I almost think you could, sweetheart. But I’m not looking for love just now. Or for anything else.”
He stepped around her to the car, unlocked the driver’s door and locked himself in before she could climb onto his lap. Where was security when you needed them? Yeah, she was hot, but candle hot. An inferno waited at home, for his private viewing pleasure.
Harry started the car and shifted into drive. She pouted, shrugged, and stepped back. He rolled the car forward and out of the lot. Let the girls dream of making him forget a lost love. He had a thrilling career and a mind full of x-rated fantasies. Who could ask for more?
Later in the season, fresh from a sizzling win at his home race in Toronto, Harry anticipated another busy week when the team moved to Vancouver in mid-July. Canadian racing fans idolized him. His face smiled from billboards all over the city. Interviews, autograph sessions, and special events took almost every minute not spent behind the wheel. A dangerous lull that could cost him the mental edge he needed on the track.
Harry dragged out of bed early on his first Vancouver morning, downed the light breakfast he’d ordered from room service and threw on his running gear. The best part of his fitness regimen—no stale gym air, just open sky. He didn’t even mind the rain, although today would be clear once the sun burned away the haze.
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