Delaney wouldn’t have questioned leaving him behind, either. How could she have deserted someone she hadn’t considered human? Max had opened his heart to her as well as his mind. He’d shown her parts of himself no one else had seen. When she left, he had felt her loss all the way to his soul, yet in her mind, she’d have packed him away with no more concern than boxing up an old doll.
Max moistened the corner of a fresh rag with turpentine and rubbed hard at the dried paint on his fingers. He’d been more of a fool than he’d thought. The closeness he and Delaney had shared couldn’t have meant as much to her as it had to him. She’d used him to ease her loneliness and to amuse herself. Like a toy. Or a pet.
I know you can help me, Max.
She wanted to use him now, too. That was the only reason she’d broken her silence.
It was the wrong thing to ask him. No one called him Max anymore. He hadn’t answered to that name for years. He was John Harrison, artist, ex-con, the monster mothers warned their children to keep away from. The last time he’d helped a woman, it had landed him in prison.
He twisted the rag between his hands as he walked to the window. He filled his lungs with fresh air, clearing out the taste of the solvent. The stink of confinement hadn’t been as easy to shake off, that mixture of steel and concrete and recycled air that wasn’t touched by the sun. It had lingered for years. Even now, he seldom closed his windows, regardless of the weather.
In spite of what he’d told the parole board, he had no remorse over what he’d done. He would have said practically anything to regain his freedom, so he’d told them what they’d wanted to hear. His only regret was that he hadn’t managed to finish the job. Virgil Budge had needed killing. That fact had never been in doubt. Although he hadn’t taken his belt to Max once he’d grown big enough to defend himself, the man had been incapable of change. He’d merely gotten craftier. He’d gone after Max’s mother only when he’d been sure Max wasn’t around, and he’d made sure the bruises he’d given her didn’t show. She’d never said a word, because she’d known what her son would do if he found out, so she’d lied and pretended everything was fine.
The farce had ended the summer Max turned seventeen. He’d been working construction, long, hot, and dusty days of framing houses. The trailer had been dark when he’d come home that night, but even before he’d reached for the door, he’d felt that something had been wrong. He’d found his mother on the bathroom floor, spitting up blood. Virgil had broken three of her ribs, and one of them had punctured her lung.
Hell, yes, the bastard had deserved to die, so Max had let the rage out. He’d unleashed a lifetime of anger. It had poured from his muscles and bones and memories in a blur of violence that had strengthened with each blow. It grew with each scream for mercy. It fed on every drop of blood that had spattered his hands and shirt and face. Damn, it had been easy. And it had felt good.
It had taken five cops to pull him off Virgil. Max had weighed less than he did now—he hadn’t yet filled into his height—but swinging a hammer and carrying lumber all day had conditioned his body better than any prizefighter’s training. Three of the cops had ended up in the hospital. They’d gotten out in time to testify, but they hadn’t needed to. His mother’s testimony alone had been enough to damn him.
She hadn’t viewed what she’d said as a betrayal. The truth was, she hadn’t wanted to be rescued.
You’re still the sweet, kind, and gentle little boy I used to love.
Max snorted a laugh. Delaney was wrong on all counts. The boy was gone. His illusions had been scoured away by the only two people he’d allowed himself to love. The whole concept of love was a lie. It was as make-believe as the worlds he and Delaney had created. She hadn’t loved him; she’d cared only about what he could do for her.
And she didn’t believe he was real. Why couldn’t he get past that? He should be pleased. It made the situation easier to handle. He might be unable to stop her from touching his mind, but there was no way he would let her touch his heart this time. No one did.
He leaned a shoulder against the window frame as he looked down on the yard. Dusk leached the color from the new grass that sprouted from the soil. He’d been trying for years to get it to grow. The site had been bulldozed down to the dirt when he’d bought the property. The trailers had been sold off and carted away well before that, but the bleakness seemed to have leached through the asphalt. He’d ripped down the chain-link fence that used to surround the place with his bare hands: it had reminded him of the fence around the exercise yard. The rusty train tracks that had once been on the embankment were gone, though it would take a few more years before the gravel rail bed sprouted anything more than weeds.
The trailer park where he’d grown up was unrecognizable now. The house he’d built bore no resemblance to the place he and his mother had shared with Virgil. It was nothing like the cell he’d been confined to, either. The structure was octagonal rather than square, so it had no tight corners. His studio stretched across most of the second story, as open and free as an aerie. It had been the first room he’d completed, and the one where he spent most of his time. The ground floor was almost as open, with walls only where they were structurally necessary. He had what he needed.
This was how Max dealt with the past. He got rid of it. What he couldn’t bury, he conquered or transformed. He’d wiped out all the traces of the evil that had happened here. Virgil’s taint would never return. Delaney was wrong to want to remember. That wasn’t the way to find peace.
He lifted his gaze to the woods beyond the old rail bed. The trees were far taller than they’d been when he was a kid. The roof of the Wainright House was hidden behind the treetops, yet he could see the sparkle of lights through the branches. She must be there now. He could feel her on the edges of his mind, a distant tug on his consciousness.
He was tempted to confront her with the truth. It would be simple to do, now that he knew where to find her. The games she’d devised as a child had taken him into every corner of her grandparents’ place. He knew his way to her bedroom. He even knew which floorboards creaked. He could cross the old rail bed, take the path through the woods, and be there within minutes. He could get into her room the regular way with no one else knowing, whenever he chose.
Sure, why not show her it was a real man she had pulled into her bed? A living being who had helped her conquer her nightmare, and who had touched her in the moonlight? He’d seen her eyes darken. She’d liked his caress, even if it hadn’t been flesh on flesh. She was all grown-up, and he would enjoy discovering some new games to play.
He pictured the Wainright rose garden. The blooms were furled for the night and already deep in the shadow of the cedar hedge. Light from the kitchen window spilled across the terrace. It was open, as it usually was during the summer. There had always been good smells in that kitchen, warm, homey scents of food and clean clothes. No beer. No sweat. No raised voices, either. Would Delaney be in there now?
Or would she be in her bedroom? Slipping off her clothes. Pulling on satin or silk that flowed over her body like the touch of his mind? He closed his eyes, probing the darkness.
Her thoughts brushed his, soft as butterfly wings. They held a smile he felt rather than saw. “Max?”
The invitation was as eager as it had always been, in spite of the way he’d left her the night before. She’d been right; he’d been deliberately harsh in an attempt to discourage her from seeking him. He’d tried to warn her, but she hadn’t cared. She’d left her mind open like a child.
Her image began to coalesce in shades of pale lilac. She wasn’t upstairs. He recognized the bay window at the back of the house in the room that used to be her mother’s. It had been changed into a sitting room, with oak bookshelves lining the walls and armchairs upholstered in deep green. Delaney was nestled on the cushioned seat in the curve of the window. Lamplight glowed on her hair, gilding the short curls with highlights of gold. A long-sleeved blouse covered her arms and conc
ealed all but the upper edge of the scar at her throat. She had curled her legs beneath a flowing, flowered skirt. A book lay open on her lap. Her fingers skimmed his arm, drawing him closer.
His body responded instantly to the thought of her touch. It had nothing to do with his heart. He had physical needs, like any other healthy male. He couldn’t channel all of his passions into his paintings. She’d used him; why not use her? She still had no idea what she was dealing with. Sex would be a small step from the intimacy she’d already forced on him. She’d given him no choice when she’d slid into his head. He’d told her to stop, and she hadn’t. She wouldn’t be able to stop him from doing the same. Why not give her a taste of what it felt like to be helpless?
Pain knifed through his hand. He broke off from Delaney and glanced down.
His knuckles were white. His hand had cramped. He’d wound the paint rag around his fist as if it were a belt.
EIGHT
“HANG ON, LEO. YOU’RE FADING OUT.” DELANEY HELD HER cell phone to her ear, walked past the edge of the terrace and into the yard. The sky was overcast and it was still early, so she wasn’t worried about protecting her skin from sun damage. Her sandals were no protection from the dew, though. Within seconds her feet were soaked. She halted at the oak tree where the signal was better. “I know it’s early for me to be calling,” she said, “but I’m eager to know what you’ve learned.”
“About . . . ?”
“About my phone records.”
“Ah, right. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m only on my second coffee.”
“You have them, don’t you?”
“Sorry, not yet. These things take time.”
“I don’t see why it should. All this information must be on the phone company’s computer somewhere; it’s only a matter of printing it out.”
“I assure you, I’m doing everything I can.” He paused. “But don’t place too much importance on this detail. Even if you knew who called you the night of the accident, it could very well turn out to mean nothing.”
“Or it could be the key that unlocks the rest.”
“Have you remembered anything else, Delaney?”
“No, not yet, but the rest will come. I’m sure of it now.”
Brave words, she thought as she ended the call. So far she had nothing to back them up. She slid the phone into her skirt pocket and drummed her fingers on her thigh. It had been three days since the memory of the phone call had surfaced. Nothing further had come back, no matter how hard she’d tried. That was the mistake she’d made before. She needed to relax and let the memories appear the same way she let Max appear.
Only, Max seemed to have deserted her. He might not have been much more help, anyway. His last visit had left her confused and frustrated. It was hard enough to fight her memory block without having to battle her subconscious at the same time.
This would have been so much simpler if she hadn’t made him into a man. A boy would have been easier to deal with. The young Max might have enjoyed the challenge of delving into her head. They could have pretended it was a treasure hunt, with her memories as the prize.
“Max,” she whispered. “Why can’t we go back?”
A patch of air near the gate shimmered. She stared at the spot, waiting for a glimpse of dark hair and blue eyes. For an instant, she felt the brush of Max’s presence.
But his image refused to form. It dissolved like a heat mirage, leaving nothing but emptiness between her and the back fence.
Was she trying too hard with him as well? Maybe this worked like her phone, and she should move around until she found a better signal. Or maybe she should start leaving the back gate open to make it easier for him to drop by.
The laugh that came from her throat scared her. It held no humor. It was too close to tears. She walked the rest of the way to the fence and curled her fingers over the top of the gate.
In its own way, the view from the back fence was as picturesque as the Wainright House’s tended yard. A haze of mist hung over the tops of the trees that hid the pond. Dew darkened the leaves in the shadows. The colors and shapes were beautiful, like the kind of soft-edged painting one might find on a greeting card. It should have looked soothing and peaceful.
It didn’t. This morning it looked ominous.
Her fingers tightened on the gate. Near the fence, the path to the pond was overgrown with weeds and long grass. It became more defined as it reached the trees. There it was bare dirt. Branches grew down on either side, close enough to form a tunnel for anyone who walked through. Delaney could almost feel the leaves and twigs whip against her face as she hurtled into the darkness . . .
This was the narrow road in her nightmare, the one she always saw before the crashing started.
Her first impulse was to turn and run back to the safety of the house. She forced herself to remain where she was. She had to face the unpleasantness, right? This wasn’t what she was trying to remember, but the dream couldn’t hurt her. It hadn’t since Max had shown her how to take control.
Why would her subconscious include this place in her nightmare of the accident? She had seldom come to Willowbank with Stanford. Whenever they’d arranged to visit, some business emergency usually had cut the visit short. While they’d been here, they’d never taken a stroll to the pond. He hadn’t been fond of the outdoors, and she disliked water. Her grandparents had lectured her about the dangers of wandering down that path so thoroughly, she had no desire to set foot on it.
Of course. This fit with what Dr. Bernhardt had said about her aversion to water. That was why the scene was incorporated into her nightmare. Her grandparents had warned her so often to keep away from the pond that she would have developed a dread of the path that led to it.
In light of that, it was odd that she often used to imagine Max appearing from this direction when she’d been a child.
Or maybe it wasn’t that odd. She must have been using him as an emotional crutch even then. He could have been her way of facing what frightened her.
The shadows over the path wavered. They gathered into an oblong shape the size of a man, then flattened once more.
Without pausing to think, Delaney opened the gate and started down the path. “Max? Where are you?”
A flock of crows took flight in a flurry of squawks when she reached the trees. Water glinted through the undergrowth. The smell of mud settled in a lump at the back of her throat. She was almost to the pond when her legs began to feel heavy, as if something was holding them down. Water flowed over her feet and rose to her ankles and then to her knees. Seaweed curled around her thighs as her toes sank further into the muck . . .
She recognized the sensations as more pieces from her nightmare. There was a logical explanation for those, too. They must be more manifestations of her dislike of water. She wiped her palms on her skirt, trying to deflect her fear the way Max had shown her. The dampness on her palms was sweat. This time, the moisture on her feet actually was dew. She took a few deep breaths, put up her arm to push a branch aside, and followed the path around a birch tree.
The pond was suddenly in front of her. It was another greeting-card-peaceful scene. Boughs from the birch provided a natural frame. Twining fingers of mist curled among lily pads and their half-opened flowers. The surface of the water mirrored the clouds like polished silver. Something plopped within the patch of bulrushes that flanked the shore. The silver rippled. The lily pads bobbed.
Delaney shivered. She really didn’t like water. Regardless of how much she tried to reason it away, the mere smell of the pond was turning her stomach.
Yet she couldn’t leave. The sensation of Max’s presence was much stronger here than it had been in the yard.
That didn’t make sense. She wasn’t relaxed. Hadn’t she decided she needed to be relaxed in order to see him? She grasped the tree trunk, digging her nails into the papery bark. “Max? I know you’re here. I can feel you.”
A cicada whirred.
The noise made her
jump. She moved around the tree, placing her back to its trunk so she faced away from the pond. Her pulse steadied once she could no longer see the water. “Please, Max. Why won’t you answer me?”
A breeze came up, rustling the leaves overhead. The nape of her neck tingled. She glanced to the side.
And just like that, there he was, standing on a patch of moss in front of a willow on the other side of the path. The pattern of the bark showed through him, then gradually faded as his image strengthened.
Delaney smiled. The mere sight of him spread such a sense of . . . rightness, she could forget about the taste of mud in her throat. “Uh, hi.”
The sharp angles of his face appeared more dramatic in daylight. His shirt was black silk that rippled against his chest and arms in the same breeze that stirred the leaves above him. He wore narrow black suspenders rather than a belt. Instead of jeans he wore tailored black pants that accentuated his narrow hips and long legs. He stood with one foot crossed over the other ankle in a negligently masculine pose while he cradled a thick, white crockery mug in his hands.
He lifted the mug to his lips. He regarded her over the rim in silence.
His perusal made her self-conscious. He was regarding her as a man who was interested in a woman.
But that was absurd. He had seen enough of her scars to know how ugly they were. Besides, she had no desire to interest any man. She was still mourning her husband.
Then why had she made Max so damn sexy?
Her pulse skipped. She told herself to ignore it. “Where have you been for the past three days?” she asked.
He swallowed and lowered the mug. “I was out of town.”
“Okay. Where?”
“Manhattan.”
Delaney's Shadow Page 8
