Shadowkiller

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Wasn’t that ironic.

  The waitress appeared to clear away the remains of Carrie’s sandwich and the empty plate that had held Mack’s burger and fries.

  “Would you like coffee and dessert menus?” she asked.

  “I’ll have coffee,” Carrie said. “No dessert.”

  “Want to share a piece of pie?” Mack asked.

  Imagine that. Imagine sharing a piece of pie with him, like boyfriend and girlfriend. The vision that popped into her head was so cozy that it unnerved her, and she stammered, “No—no, thanks.”

  Mack ordered a piece of apple pie and told the waitress to bring two forks anyway, “Just in case.”

  “Coffee for you, too?”

  “At this hour? No, thanks.”

  “Does it keep you up?” Carrie asked him when the waitress had stepped away again.

  “It doesn’t help. I haven’t found anything that does. I’ve had insomnia most of my life. Especially lately. I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night.”

  “That’s understandable, with all that’s been going on.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” He sighed. “I don’t want to talk about that stuff anymore. It’s your turn now. Tell me about you.”

  Just like that, she was uncomfortable again, filled with misgiving.

  Why am I here?

  What am I supposed to say to him?

  She cleared her throat. “There’s not much to tell, really.”

  “Don’t be shy. You’re not the only good listener at this table.”

  “I just . . . I don’t know what you want to know.” She’d already told him, on their first date, that she’d lost both her parents years ago. He didn’t press her for details. Maybe he sensed that it was a painful subject. Or maybe, facing that loss himself, he just didn’t want to know.

  Now he said, “Start with the easy part. Where are you from?”

  Easy? Ha. None of it was easy.

  If she told him the truth, even just the name of the rural South Dakota county where she’d been born, she’d be opening the door to more questions. If she didn’t answer them, he’d be suspicious. And if she did, and they continued to see each other, and he ever decided to go poking around in her past . . .

  No, she couldn’t tell him the truth.

  “Carrie?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Where you’re from is a long story?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got all night.” He rested his chin on his hand.

  “My parents and I . . . we moved around a lot. So I’m not really from any one place.”

  “Was your father in the military or something?”

  “No, not that . . .”

  He was watching her, waiting for her to go on. She looked away and her gaze fell on the group of men at the next table, the ones with the dark shirts and pinky rings.

  Her head was spinning. How could she make Mack stop asking questions she couldn’t answer?

  “Carrie . . . ?”

  “I’ve never told anyone this.” She shifted her eyes back to Mack. “I mean, maybe it’s okay, after all these years, but maybe . . . maybe I still shouldn’t be talking about it.”

  She half expected him to tell her that it was okay, she didn’t have to. But she could see the curiosity in his eyes, and she knew he wasn’t going to let her off the hook that easily.

  So she took a deep breath, and, feeling as though she were inching out on a tightrope that was as sturdy as thread, she said it.

  “Witness protection program.”

  “What about it?”

  “I was in it. Growing up.”

  Mack’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”

  “Why would I kid about something like that?”

  “You wouldn’t,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry. I was just surprised. What happened?”

  “When I was really young,” she said, “I lived with my parents in a city, and something happened—it involved my father. He got into some kind of trouble, and his life—our lives—were in danger. So we . . . you know . . . disappeared.”

  “What did—”

  “I was too young to remember. All I know was that one day, we were living a normal life, and after that, we weren’t. Even after we were settled into our new life, we had to pick up and move again, without any warning.”

  “Where did it all start?”

  “I have no idea. Like I said, it was a city—I don’t know which one, though, or even which part of the country. I don’t even know what my name was when I was born.”

  “So Carrie Robinson isn’t your real name?”

  “It’s real enough. It’s who I am.”

  “But who were you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No, but . . . aren’t you curious? Didn’t your parents ever fill you in?” Mack asked. “Later, I mean.”

  “No.”

  “You mean they refused to tell you?”

  “I mean I never asked. What did it matter? All I knew was that I’d had a normal life, and then one day, suddenly, I didn’t.”

  The waitress showed up with a pot of coffee, and Mack and Carrie waited silently as she turned over one of the two cups on the table and filled it. She set down a metal creamer and a little dish of sugar packets and artificial sweeteners, and left.

  “What happened, exactly, with your father? I mean, was he involved in criminal activity himself? Or was he just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Did he see something he shouldn’t have seen?”

  “I have no idea,” she said for the second time in as many minutes. “I just don’t know what happened.”

  “Really?”

  Again, she bristled. “Really.”

  They shouldn’t be talking about this. She shouldn’t be talking about this. It was dangerous.

  She reached for the creamer and dumped some into her coffee. Feeling Mack’s eyes on her, she opened a sugar packet and poured it in, and then another, even though she didn’t ordinarily take her coffee sweetened.

  “I’m just trying to understand,” Mack said. “So you didn’t ever ask him for the details?”

  She picked up a spoon and stirred vigorously. “No. It didn’t matter to me.”

  “Why not?”

  Irked that he wouldn’t just drop it, she suddenly wished she’d fled his parents’ house earlier and not looked back. This was much harder than she’d expected.

  Already, she was in over her head.

  He was waiting.

  She forced herself to look up and meet his gaze head on. “This is really hard for me. I told you, I never talked about it before with anyone. I don’t . . . it’s not something I’m comfortable doing.”

  He reached across the table and took her hand in both of his. His grasp was big and warm.

  “It’s okay, Carrie. I’m glad you told me. I’m honored. I figured you weren’t the type who let your guard down very easily, but I had no idea that the reason was this intense.”

  Oh, Mack, if you only knew . . .

  She was unaccustomed to the depth of the emotions that coursed through her as she sat looking into his kind green eyes. What had begun with casual interest and mere attraction had given way to fierce longing. She wanted this man—this deliciously ordinary man. Wanted him in every way; wanted him to want her, to need her, to love her.

  She had never imagined that such a thing was possible, and now that she’d glimpsed what might be . . .

  This was it for her. There was no turning back now.

  “Here we are . . . apple pie, two forks.” The waitress was back, setting a plate on the table between them. “Enjoy, guys.”

  Mack nodded, but didn’t break his eye contact with Carrie. When they were alone again, he gave her hands another squeeze. “Are you okay?”

  “I am.”

  “I have one last question for you.”

  Uh-oh.

  The tightrope wobbled again.

  “What is it?”

  “Why
me?” he asked.

  “Why . . . you?”

  “You said you never told anyone your story. After all these years of keeping people at arm’s length . . . why did you finally choose to let someone in? Why tonight? Why me?”

  Relieved by the question, she dared to answer it with utter honesty. “I guess it was just . . . there was something about you that made me want to let you in. That made me want to know you.”

  He smiled. “My sparkling wit? My dashing good looks? What was it?”

  She shrugged, shook her head, thinking about how snug her hand was with his wrapped around it. “You just felt safe.”

  “I’m glad.”

  He nodded, as if that was all settled then, and let go of her hand. He picked up the forks and offered one to her. “You have to have pie.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You sure? It’s really good here.”

  She took a fork and tasted it, because he wanted to share it.

  “Do you like it?”

  She nodded.

  “I knew you would. I’ve been coming here for years. The food is a lot better than you’d think. But next time, I promise, I’ll take you out to a great dinner in Manhattan.”

  Next time. Finally, she managed a smile.

  “I mean, two strikes so far . . . I can’t afford a third.”

  “Two strikes?”

  “I took you to a pub on our first date. And now a diner. Some women wouldn’t like it.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you talking about Chelsea?”

  He looked startled. “Chelsea? How did you know about her?”

  “You told me. Remember?”

  “Nope.” He shook his head. “I guess I’ve had so much on my mind lately I can’t remember what I told you.”

  She’s had a lot on her mind, too—but she knows damned well she’s not going to forget a single detail about what she told him tonight.

  “You told me about Chelsea,” she says.

  “I guess it must have been pretty memorable, considering that you actually remember her name. Did I say she was an evil bitch or something?”

  “Not . . . you didn’t say that, exactly.”

  “I didn’t? Are you sure?” He laughed.

  “Was she?”

  “You could say that. Or I could say it. Hell, I could say a lot of things—but I don’t want to waste my breath on Chelsea. She’s not worth it.”

  No. She certainly isn’t, Carrie thought, watching him stab his fork into the pie. She’s not worth your breath, and she’s not worth the air she breathes. Guess I’ll just have to do something about that.

  Chapter Nine

  Lower Manhattan’s skyline, topped off by the twin towers of the World Trade Center, was tinted with the first pinkish streaks of dawn as the yellow cab turned onto Chelsea’s street just off West Broadway.

  She’d been expecting Andrew to send her home with his personal chauffeur, but maybe he didn’t have one. She’d almost asked about it, but decided not to. She didn’t want him to think she was a gold digger.

  It was enough, for now, to have been wined and dined at the Pierre, then bedded in a lovely suite upstairs.

  When he’d suggested a private nightcap, she’d expected him to take her back to his place, but he said he was having renovations done.

  Maybe that was true.

  Or maybe he had a live-in girlfriend, or even a wife. Who knew? Who cared? Just potential small obstacles, as far as Chelsea was concerned. She had her sights set on Andrew, and she was going to get him.

  He was just as handsome as she remembered from the first night, and impeccably dressed. She wished he knew his way around a woman’s anatomy as well as he did a wine list, but was willing to chalk up his rather perfunctory performance to first-time jitters and, yes, all that pinot noir he’d had.

  They’d really hit it off in every other possible way.

  Well, other than the fact that he abhorred cigarettes. When she asked if he minded if she lit up, he said that he did, then launched into an antismoking tirade she tried to tune out as much as possible. It was okay. Maybe she’d quit for him. Or maybe she’d just sneak them when he was around.

  At least the conversation never once lagged—though if it had, she was armed with a mental list of questions to ask him. He answered most of them without being asked, telling her almost everything she wanted to know about him, plus a lot of extra information that was—well, not boring, exactly, but . . .

  All right. It was boring. It could have just been that she was tired after a long workweek, or simply wasn’t in the right mood to hear about his starring role in boarding school rugby matches, or his recent business trip to Saskatchewan. She was sure he was full of fascinating stories about other things, and that he’d get around to asking her about herself on their next date.

  Of course, there would be one, because when they parted ways on the street in front of the hotel, he’d said, “I’ll call you.”

  Maybe there would already be a message waiting on her home answering machine, she thought, and eagerly reached for the car door handle as the taxi pulled to a stop outside her building.

  “Hey, lady!” the cabbie said as she started to climb out. “The fare?”

  “My fiancé took care of it,” she reminded him. Fiancé. She liked the sound of that. “Remember? He told you to keep the change?”

  “Your fiancé—” his tone made it clear he didn’t buy that for one second—“gave me ten bucks. The fare is twelve-seventy-five.”

  Ten bucks?

  Chelsea had figured Andrew was giving him a twenty, or even a fifty. In fact . . . how did she know he hadn’t?

  “I suggest that you look again,” she said haughtily. “Why would he give you a ten?” Even if he had, it must have been a mistake. He probably thought it was a twenty. Or a fifty.

  “Sure, I’ll look again. Oh yeah, you’re right, he didn’t give me a ten . . .”

  Aha.

  “He gave me two fives.” He waved them at her.

  “What proof do I have that you’re not lying?”

  “Call your fiancé and ask him . . . if you have his phone number.”

  She was too incensed to think of a snappy comeback.

  “Look, just pay the rest of your fare, lady, and I’ll get out of your hair, okay?”

  Chelsea fumbled in the white silk bag that exactly matched the dress she was wearing, came up with three singles, and tossed them into the front seat. “Here. Keep the change, okay?”

  She heard the obscenity he threw at her just before she slammed the door, and she returned it under her breath.

  Storming toward her building as fast as she could on the pair of barely-broken-in five-inch strappy silver stilettos she’d bought yesterday, she heard the taxi pull away and screech around the corner.

  She repeated the obscenity, this time louder, just before she noticed the homeless person huddled on the sidewalk a few feet away from the entrance to her building. He appeared to be asleep. If he wasn’t, he might think she’d been directing the profane phrase at him. Well, so be it. Vagrants weren’t welcome on this block. Chelsea made a mental note to inform the landlord that the neighborhood was going downhill and she deserved a rent reduction.

  Then again, maybe she shouldn’t bother, she thought, as she stood in front of the door feeling around inside her bag for her keys and the pack of Salems she hadn’t touched in hours.

  Maybe she’d soon be moving in with Andrew uptown, once his renovations were completed or his girlfriend had been kicked to the curb or whatever—

  The thought was curtailed by a rush of movement behind her . . .

  Much too close behind her.

  Now what? Had she pissed off that bum? Was he going to do something about it? Was she going to be attacked or mugged right here on her doorstep?

  No way. Absolutely no freaking way, she thought, and started to turn.

  “Don’t move,” a voice whispered harshly, and something jabbed into her ribs.
/>   She went still.

  “Unlock the door. Don’t make a sound. Hurry up.”

  Chelsea’s hand shook as she felt around in her bag. A lipstick, a comb, a compact—she couldn’t use any of those things to fight back, dammit. At last she found the key, and it took her several tries to insert it into the lock.

  “Hurry up!” the voice whispered again, and she was prodded once more from behind with what could only be a gun.

  Chelsea unlocked the door and pushed it open, knowing he was going to rape her, sickened at the thought of it.

  “Go ahead, get inside. Walk to your apartment. And I know which one it is, so don’t try anything. Make a sound, and you’re dead.”

  It’s not a man, she realized. It’s a woman.

  Thank God. Thank God rape wasn’t going to happen. She could handle anything but that.

  “I’ll give you whatever you want,” she said softly, forcing her wobbling shoes to carry her to the stairway. “I have money upstairs, and some jewelry.”

  Money—maybe twenty bucks that would be in her wallet, which was still tucked inside the purse she’d carried to work today, along with some subway tokens.

  And jewelry? She owned plenty of costume pieces, even a few that could pass for the real thing—but there was no way she’d give this creep the diamond tennis bracelet she’d inherited from her stepmother, or her emerald earrings, which she’d have been wearing right now if Tiffany had loaned her the green Dior to wear tonight.

  I’m glad you were so selfish, she silently told her friend. Thanks to you, those earrings are safe and sound and hidden away where this thieving bitch will never find them.

  The building’s public hallways and stairway were deserted at this hour. If Chelsea screamed, someone would come to help her—but by then, she’d be shot dead. Unless it wasn’t a real gun in her ribs—not that she was willing to take any chances and find out.

  Up one flight they went, and down the hall to apartment 2C.

  “Unlock the door.”

  “I am,” Chelsea bit out, trying to get the key into the lock, and was rewarded with another sharp nudge in the back.

  “Be quiet.”

  “I am.” This time, she whispered.

  She opened the door and started to step into the apartment, but was shoved roughly from behind. She cried out as she stumbled forward and caught herself on the back of a chair. Her thoughts spun as she clung to it, trying to regroup, wondering if she could possibly grab a lamp or something to use as a weapon.