"Like Ted." He sent her a quick, curious glance. "You said it yourself, Joey—he was in Vegas with you when those murders went down. And he's been acting odd lately. Oddly enough that your sister thinks he has another woman."
Joey closed her eyes and tried to picture Ted as a killer. Ted dressing as a woman, or putting on coral-frost lipstick and... Her eyes flew wide. "Caro has the same lipstick, Ash. We were together when I bought mine, and she decided to try it too."
"So we know Ted has access to it. Does he smoke, Joey?"
She shook her head, almost going limp with relief. "Not in years. He quit right after Brit was born, because the smoke used to make her wheeze."
"You remember his brand?"
Joey shook her head. "I don't think I ever knew it." She concentrated hard, trying to find the answers in her mind, but they simply weren't there. And she knew too well there were other reasons for her to feel connected to this killer, to feel like the bastard had invaded her mind. Compelling reasons. Her own sister was on the hit list. And so was Ash. Those two things alone might have some bearing on her uncanny abilities in this. It didn't have to mean the killer was someone she knew.
But she couldn't tell Ash about her sister, because he was going to get his memory back soon. And if he knew the truth—that she'd only come to him in order to save her sister, that she'd played cruel, wicked games with his already-fragile mind—he would hate her. And she couldn't bear that.
"What kind of background does Ted have? Was he close to his family?"
She jerked herself out of her misery and tried to focus on Ash's questions. "His mother and stepfather still live in Nevada. He doesn't see them much anymore, but it's not because of any discord. Just the distance. They all seemed to get along fine whenever I saw them together."
"And where's his natural father?"
Joey frowned and shrugged. "I don't know. I've never heard Ted mention him." Images danced at the fringes of her consciousness. Images she'd seen before, in the nightmare. Her sister, Caro, lying facedown on the floor, her regulation sweats and baggy shirt stained with blood, her long, calico blond hair tipped in red. And the hands, those leather-gloved hands, reaching for her.
Joey pressed her fingers to her temples and sucked air through her teeth. God, she just wanted it to stop!
"Joey?"
She glanced at Ash and bit her lip. "You're right There's some kind of connection, but I don't think it's Ted. Whatever it is, it's getting stronger. I can hardly close my eyes anymore without feeling...that blackness...closing in."
Ash reached out and his warm hand pushed into her hair, stroking it. "We won't talk about it anymore today, hmm? We'll just..."
She looked at him, smiled softly. He really seemed concerned. "Just what?"
"Whatever you want. Dinner in the most elegant restaurant in town. Syracuse Stage for the latest play. Ballroom dancing. You name it, lady."
She felt a warmth creeping through her, and she nodded.
#
Ash couldn't get over it. And he couldn't quit looking at her, lying back with her head pillowed on a backpack. She wore faded jeans that were a little too big, their legs rolled up, and a pair of black army boots that laced up over her ankles. The flannel shirt she'd pulled on over her tank top was worn-blanket soft, and its plaid pattern was fading. Her hair was long and loose, falling over her shoulders from under the most ridiculous-looking hat he'd ever seen in his life. Her fishing hat, she called it, and it dangled with hooks and lures of every imaginable description. The white light from a Coleman lantern bathed her face, shimmered in her hair, and her green eyes darted every few seconds to the fishing pole propped in the crotch of a forked branch she'd stuck in the ground.
Still, baggy clothes, ridiculous hat and all, she was the most irresistible woman he'd ever seen. It made no sense, but she looked better to him than any glamorous cover model or starlet or swimsuit calendar girl ever could.
And she was relaxing. The tightness wasn't in her jaw, and the worry that had clouded her eyes earlier was all but gone. He would sit out here with the mosquitos all night if it would ease her mind.
She tensed up all of a sudden, eyes on the water. "Ash!"
"Hmm?"
"You have a bite."
He dragged his eyes from her to the fishing pole and saw its end twitching sporadically. He'd much rather continue watching Joey, but he leaned forward, carefully picked up his pole and waited. When it jerked in his hands, he yanked it once, felt his success in the frenzied tugging and began to reel it in.
Joey stood, balancing precariously on her good leg, and reached for the line when it was in the shallows. "Oooh, it's a nice one, too." She grabbed the slick black bullhead and worked the hook free. Ash shook his head slowly. Squeamish, she wasn't. She dropped the fish into the waiting pail, grinning from ear to ear.
"You really like this, don't you?"
She handed him a can of worms and settled back down in her spot beside him. "What's not to like?" She extended her wounded leg carefully and drew the other knee up to her chest, wrapping her arms around it and gazing out over the calm, muddy water. Crickets chirped madly, and once in a while the deep croak of a bullfrog floated like a foghorn on the breeze. The night wind stirred her hair.
Ash baited his hook and, with a less-than-expert cast, sent his line sailing out over the small lake. "So how did you know about this place?"
He balanced his pole in his own forked branch and sat down, closer to her than before. But when he glanced at her face, it was troubled. "Joey?"
She swallowed, sighed softly. "My dad used to bring us here when I was a kid."
"Did you like it this much then?"
She didn't look at him, just kept staring out at the water. "Mom would pack more food than an army could eat. We'd build a fire, toast marshmaliows." She laughed, just a little. "Caro would never bait her own hook. She hated touching worms, and she never caught a thing because she'd insist on holding her pole and she wiggled it around so much a fish would have to be nuts to try and bite. But Dad would hook one on his, and he'd let Caro reel it in."
Ash felt a twinge inside. Jealousy, maybe, for the childhood he'd never had. And then he felt something else, something sad, when her smile slowly died. "That was before I knew what he was really like. I thought he was superman back then."
"Tough image to live up to."
She said nothing, just looked away, up toward the starry sky. Her eyes shone a little too much, and she blinked quickly.
"Joey, have you ever sat down and talked to your father, heard his side of things?"
"There's no excuse for what he put my mother through, so why bother asking him to explain?'' She shook her head. "No, Ash, I don't want to talk to my father."
"But maybe if you—"
"Or about him." She shook her head. "It hurts too much."
"If you didn't still care, it wouldn't hurt at all."
She looked him square in the eye. "Sounds like the voice of experience."
He clamped his jaw shut. He was certain what he'd said was true, in her case. But not in his. He didn't care at all. Never had. It was different
"Were you close to your father, Ash?"
"I never knew my father." He got to his feet. "You know, that campfire idea isn't bad." He looked around, spotted some twigs and dried leaves and began gathering them.
"What about your mother?"
Ash deposited the kindling atop the charred remains of other fires, old ones. "You didn't happen to bring any marshmallows, did you?"
He felt her gaze on him for a long moment. Then she released her breath all at once. "Afraid not."
He looked at her and saw the knowledge in her eyes. He knew she was feeling his emotions just then, experiencing his private hell right along with him. And for some reason, it didn't feel like an invasion. More like a mental hug. When their eyes met, those fingers of horror from his past released their brief grip on his mind. Warmth and light took their place.
She got
up and walked toward him, stopping right in front of him, and he straightened from his task of arranging sticks for a fire. Her hands slid up his chest, around his neck, and she stood on tiptoe to press her lips to his. His arms encircled her waist and pulled her closer, and then he opened his mouth over hers, kissing her deeply, slowly, savoring her taste and her scent and her sweetness.
God, what was this thing that filled him when he was with her? Not lust, though he wanted her more every time he looked at her. No, it was more than that, deeper, fuller, bigger than that. It seemed to ooze from his every pore and press in around him from without at the same time. It enveloped them both, he thought, trying to fuse them into one being.
He felt her fingers threading into his hair, and her body pressing to his. He felt the cool, damp breeze bathing them both with its marshy scent. He lifted his head, staring down at those glittering green gems.
She blinked at him, her eyes wide and wonder filled. "I'm so afraid of this," she whispered.
"Of wanting me?" He slipped his hands beneath her shirt and ran his palms over the warm, smooth curve of her back.
“Of... of needing you.''
He closed his eyes at the impact of her words. "I know."
"It's overpowering. It's getting worse all the time, and I—"
"And I can't do anything to stop it," he finished for her. "I'm not sure I want to stop it." He took her hat off and tossed it aside. Then he kissed her cheek, her jaw.
She let her head fall back and he trailed his mouth over her neck. "It's out of my hands," she said softly, her voice wavering like the breeze skipping over the water's surface.
"Then just let it go." His lips moved over her throat as he spoke. "Let it go, Joey."
He brought his hands around between them and pushed the soft flannel from her shoulders. As it fell to the ground, he pushed the tank top up, wrestled it over her head and tossed it aside. She wore nothing underneath, and he feasted on her perfect breasts, first with his eyes and then his mouth. He loved the way her nipples hardened on his tongue, the way they pulsed when he nipped at them, the way she arched toward him in silent supplication. His fingers fumbled with the button and zipper of her jeans, and he shoved them down over her hips, letting his hands caress and squeeze her buttocks as he did.
She trembled beneath his hands, sinking slowly to her knees. Her fingers freed his erection, and then her lips touched him, parted, took him into their warm wetness. He tangled his fingers in her hair, shuddering. Her hands pressed against his backside, pulling him deeper into her mouth. He felt her tongue working him, the soft scrape of her teeth, the pressure of her lips, and he groaned long and low.
He gripped her shoulders, pulling her to her feet, conscious of how fragile she was, both physically and emotionally. He supported her, so she wouldn't step down on that leg. Then he kissed her again while she frantically unbuttoned his shirt, shoved it off him and pushed his pants down.
He clumsily shook free of his clothes, gathering her to him again, feeling the thrill of her silken flesh against his skin. He couldn't get enough of running his hands up and down over the curve of her waist, or of thrusting into her with his fingers to feel the immediate rush of her juices coating them.
He picked her up, hands on the backs of her parted thighs, carefully avoiding the bandaged wound. He lowered her over his arousal. Her tightness was like a hand, gripping, squeezing. He held her hips and moved her up and down over him. She clung to him, feeding on his mouth as if she were starved for it. Her breasts, their nipples pebble hard, brushed over his chest, driving him insane.
He sank to his knees, still inside her, and slowly lowered her to the ground, going down on top of her. Her legs wrapped around him, her ankles hooked at the small of his back. Her hips writhed beneath him as he drove into her, again and again. And he felt her body tightening, tensing, trembling as her breathing came in quick little gasps and her heart hammered beneath his.
His own muscles bunched and twisted, the tension within him building with every stroke, every soft moan she uttered into his mouth, every warm breath that he swallowed. His tongue thrust into her mouth in rhythm with his body into hers, and then she was clinging, shaking all over, sobbing his name. The convulsing of her around him was what pushed him over the edge, and he plunged deep inside her, pulsing with the force of his release.
He closed his eyes and relaxed on top of her, supporting a lot of his weight on his knees so he wouldn't crush her. Her hands stroked his back, and her lips moved over his face and neck. He smiled, smoothing her hair and lifting his head enough to look into her eyes. They sparkled, searching his.
"No one's ever made me feel the way you do, Ash."
His ego launched skyward. She had that effect on him a lot. "I was thinking the same thing about you."
"Faint praise from a man with no memory." She laughed softly, but her smile died seconds later. "But that won't be the case much longer, will it?"
Ash frowned, immediately alert. Was she on to him? "What does that mean?"
"Your memory. It's starting to come back." She averted her eyes.
"What makes you think so?"
"The nightmare. You must remember something about...about your childhood."
He licked his lips. She was too perceptive. He hadn't even considered the possibility that she would...read him so well. "As little as possible."
She ran one hand over his hair. "It was pretty terrible, wasn't it?"
He nodded, not wanting to talk about the hell of his past. She must have read that, too, because she went on. "And then there's the apartment. You seemed to know where everything was. Didn't seem disoriented or anything."
"Oh, that." He said nothing for a moment, kicking himself mentally for slipping. "It felt sort of automatic."
She smiled, but her eyes seemed so sad it tugged at him.
"You're getting better and you don't even realize it. Soon you'll remember everything."
"You don't sound happy about that."
"I want you to get better, Ash. Don't doubt that."
"But?"
She closed her eyes, shook her head. "It doesn't matter."
"I think it does."
"Let's not talk about it, Ash."
He sighed hard, rolling off her and reaching for his clothes. For just a second there, he'd thought she might come clean, tell him everything, explain her lies. She had disappointed him.
#
Beverly Issacs paced the hall in front of the apartment door, looking fit to bite nails in half, when Ash and Joey emerged from the elevator. She looked at Joey as if she was looking at day-old garbage, then focused her attention on Ash.
"I've been trying to get hold of you for hours." It had the ring of an accusation.
Ash's arm fell slowly from Joey's shoulders, and she wished he'd left it there. She disliked this woman instinctively, felt the hairs on her nape stand upright in warning.
"Why?" Ash stepped forward, frowning hard.
Bev's pale face hardened. "We found another one."
Chapter Eleven
Joey's blood ran cold. Her fingertips felt like ice and tingled. Another one. Another of the Slasher's victims. She slowly closed her eyes. God, when would it end?
"When?" Ash hurried past Bev to unlock his door. He shoved it wide and stood aside while the tall woman strode through.
"Three hours ago, in a run-down house up in Central Square." She spoke as she walked.
Joey saw Ash glance back at her. She stiffened her spine and made herself move forward. She didn't want to hear this, but she supposed she had to. At least this time no one could suspect her. She'd been with Ash all day, all night. Never once out of his sight.
"Victim number five," Ash quoted as Joey passed him. He closed the door, and the three walked into the living room.
"Two," Beverly Issacs corrected. Ash only frowned at her. "Number two. This one had been dead awhile. Older man, lived alone, no close neighbors. Probably still wouldn't have been found if some kid
hawking magazine subscriptions hadn't noticed the smell."
Joey spun away from them, her hand going over her mouth.
"Dammit, Bev, can you get any more graphic?" Ash stood behind Joey, his hands closing on her shoulders, squeezing.
"Sorry. Didn't know she was squeamish."
Joey stiffened, and slowly she turned to face the woman. She was not squeamish. She'd just cleaned and skinned a half-dozen bullhead. Her hand tightened on the paper-wrapped fish. She'd forgotten she still held them. She didn't say a word to the woman, just walked into the kitchen, dumped the package into the sink and turned on the water. As she washed them, she could still hear Ash and Beverly talking.
"So why were you so frantic to reach me?"
"I wasn't until I couldn't find you. Then I got to thinking our friend might've decided to make you his evening's entertainment"
"That's a leap of logic, even for you, Bev."
"Yeah, well it's damn near 2:00 a.m. Who's out at this time of night? And then there's your new wife, who hangs out at murder scenes for fun. Add in all the information you have about the case—you know, the stuff you aren't telling me—and it isn't so farfetched."
"You know everything I do," he said, but even Joey could tell by the slight smugness in his tone that he was lying. Joey sprinkled the fish with salt, wrapped them in clean white paper and set them in the fridge. Then she scrubbed her hands.
"Oh, yeah? Well I don't know why a guy named Harris, from the paper, would come to see me about a routine burglary investigation, only to snatch a few butts from my ashtray and not-so-surreptitiously slip 'em into his pocket. Can you explain that to me?"
Joey could picture the way Ash would shrug, his face all innocence. "Beats me. Nicotine fit, maybe?"
"So you're not talking?"
"Bev, will you relax? If I find anything solid, you'll be the first to know. You think I want this creep to go on killing?"
"If I find out you're withholding evidence—"
"Now, Bev, you know me better than that."
"Stubborn son of a—" Beverly broke off, eyeing Joey suspiciously as she reentered the living room, then shook her head hard and started for the door. "God, I hate men!" The door slammed behind her when she left.
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