by Nora Roberts
He stuck his hands in his pockets, leaned on the jamb. “I haven’t been using this room or this john. Yet.”
“Really? I’d never have guessed.”
He glanced around the now dust-free bedroom where paint cans stood in stacks tidily beside sawhorses, rollers, pans and brushes on neatly folded tarps.
“You’re setting up in here?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not for me. Did you wash the floor out here?”
“Damp-mopped. Let me point out, as someone who works with wood, you should take better care of your floors. You need some Murphy’s at least.”
“I’ve got some. Somewhere. Maybe.” She was making him twitchy. “I’ve been busy.”
“Understood.”
“You’re not going to go around cleaning everything, are you?”
She swiped a hand over her forehead. “Let me give you my solemn oath on that. But I’m going to work in here. I need a clean, ordered space to work. I’ll keep the door closed so it doesn’t shock your sensibilities.”
“Now you’re being bitchy.”
Because she heard the amusement in his tone, she smiled back. “Yes, I am. Move back so I can finish this. I appreciate what you’re doing, Simon.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I do, and I know it disrupts your space, your routine, your privacy.”
“Shut up.”
“I just want to thank—”
“Shut up,” he repeated. “You matter. That’s it. I’ve got something to do.”
She sat back on her heels when he strode out. Shut up. You matter. That’s it. Honestly, she mused, coming from him that was practically a poem by Shelley.
By the time she’d arranged her office, with her desk tidy under the window facing the back and the woods, she’d have killed for a glass of wine and a comfortable chair. But her sense of order wouldn’t allow her to leave her clothes in suitcases.
She’d scope out Simon’s bedroom, then find him and ask how he wanted her to deal with her clothes.
It surprised her to find the bed made—sort of made, she thought. The dog beds had been tossed in a corner, and the doors to the deck stood open to let in the air.
She poked in the closet, saw he’d shoved his clothes over to make room for hers. She’d need a drawer, she thought. Two would be better. She moved to the dresser, opened one gingerly. He’d emptied it out for her. He was one step ahead of her, she thought, then cocked her head, sniffed.
Lemon?
Curious, she crossed to the bathroom, then just leaned on the door frame. She recognized a freshly cleaned bathroom—the scent of citrus, the gleam of porcelain, the rich sheen of brushed nickel. The towels hung in an orderly fashion on rods melted her heart.
He’d probably cursed with every swipe, she mused, but, well, she mattered. And that was it.
She put away her clothes, stowed her toiletries, then went down to find him.
He stood in the kitchen, looking out the back door at the training equipment.
“Some of that should be replaced,” he said without looking around. “That platform’s crap.”
“You’re probably right. Did James and Lori go?”
“Yeah. She put stuff in the fridge and wherever, said to tell you she’d call you tomorrow. I offered them a beer,” he added, almost defensively. “But they rain-checked.”
“I imagine they’re tired after all this.”
“Yeah. I want a beer and the beach.”
“That sounds perfect. Go ahead. I’ve just a couple things, then I’ll come down.”
He walked over, opened the fridge for his beer. “Don’t clean anything.”
She lifted her hand. “Solemn oath.”
“Right. I’ll leave Newman, take the rest.”
She nodded. She couldn’t be alone, she thought. Not even here.
She waited until he’d gone out, until she’d heard him order Newman to stay, stay with Fee. Then she sat at his counter, laid her head on it and waited for the tears that had begun to burn in her throat to come.
But they wouldn’t. She’d held them back too long, she realized. Pushed them down all these hours, and now they were simply blocked, locked inside, hurting her throat, aching in her head.
“Okay.” She breathed the word out, rose. Rather than a beer she chose a bottle of water. Better, she thought. Cleaner.
She stepped outside where the faithful Newman waited. “Let’s take a walk.”
He bounded over immediately, doing a full-body wag as he rubbed against her.
“I know, new place. It’s nice, isn’t it? Lots of room. We’ll be okay here for a while. We’ll figure it all out.” Her eye instinctively picked up spots that needed flowers, a good location for a kitchen garden.
Not hers to play with, she reminded herself.
“Still it could use more color, more outdoor seating. I’m surprised he hasn’t thought of it. He’s the artist.” She paused as they came to the drop leading down to the beach. “But then there’s this. It’s pretty fabulous.”
The charm of crooked steps led down to the narrow beach and opened to the dreamy spread of water. Stars winked on, adding to the sense of peace, of privacy. Simon walked along with the three dogs sniffing sand and shale and surf.
He’d missed this, she thought, his solo walks in the twilight where the land met the water. Missed the quiet, the subtle whoosh of the surf at the end of the day, but he’d stepped away from that to be with her.
Whatever happened around them, between them, she wouldn’t forget that.
As she stood, looking down, he pulled bright yellow tennis balls from a bag he’d hooked on his belt. He heaved them, one, two, three, into the water—and the dogs charged and leaped.
They’d smell . . . amazing, she thought as she watched them swim toward the bobbing yellow balls.
Even as she thought it, she heard Simon’s laugh rise up, over the subtle whoosh of the surf, over the quiet—and the sound of it chased away the demons.
Look at them, she thought. Look how wonderful they are, how perfect they are. My guys.
Beside her, Newman quivered.
“What the hell. Four smelly dogs isn’t any worse than three. Go! Go play!”
He charged down the crooked steps, joy in the speed, in the challenging bark. Simon tossed a fourth ball in the air, caught it, then winged it into the water. Without breaking stride, Newman sprinted in.
And Fiona ran down to join the game.
IN HIS MOTEL ROOM near the Seattle airport, Francis X. Eckle read the most recent message from Perry and sipped his evening whiskey on the rocks.
He didn’t care for the tone, no, he didn’t care for the tone at all. Words like disappointed, control, focus, unnecessary popped out of the text and grated against his pride. His ego.
Boring, he thought, and crumpled the paper into a ball. Boring, scolding and annoying. Perry needed to remember just who was in prison, and who wasn’t.
That was the problem with teachers—and he should know because before he evolved he’d been a teacher himself. Boring, scolding and annoying.
But no more.
Now he had the power of life and death in his hands.
He lifted one, studied it. Smiled at it.
He breathed fear at his whim, dispensed pain, eked out hope, then crushed it. He saw all of that in their eyes, all the fear, the pain, the hope and, finally, the surrender.
Perry had never felt this rush of power and knowledge. If he had, truly had, he wouldn’t constantly preach caution and control—or, as he liked to call it, “the clean kill.”
Annette had been the most satisfying kill to date. And why? Because of the sound his fists made when they pounded into her flesh, cracked against bone. Because he’d felt every blow even as she did.
Because there had been blood—the sight of it, the smell of it. He’d been able to watch, to study the way the bruises gathered, the way they rose up to stain the skin, and to enjoy the different tones—slap or pun
ch.
They’d gotten to know each other, hadn’t they? Taking the time for that, sharing pain, made the kill so much more intimate. So much more real.
Thinking about it now, he realized Perry’s work had been bloodless, clinical, even detached. There couldn’t have been genuine pleasure with so little passion. The single time Perry had deviated, had allowed himself true, bloody violence, he hadn’t been able to handle it.
Now he lived in a cell.
That was why this gradual and creative acceleration was superior. Why he was now superior.
It was time, maybe past time, he decided, to break off all contact with Perry. He had nothing more to learn from that source, and no desire to teach.
Remembering himself, he rose to pick up the balled note. He smoothed it out carefully before tucking it into the folder with all the others.
He’d already begun to write a book on his life, his epiphany, his evolution, his work. He’d accepted it would be published posthumously. He’d accepted his inevitable end, and the acceptance made each moment more vital.
Not prison. No, never prison. He’d already lived his life in a self-imposed prison. But glory. In the end, the inevitable end, he would have glory.
For now, he would simply be a shadow, slipping in and out of the light, unnamed and unknown. Or known only by those he chose, those who crossed from life to death with his face caught in their eyes.
He’d already selected the next.
Another change, he thought. Another stage of his evolution. And while he studied her, tracked her like a wolf tracks a rabbit, he could speculate on how it would be between them.
The irony was exquisite, and he knew, already knew it would add to the thrill.
Then before much longer, there would be Fiona.
He took out the newspaper, unfolded it, smoothed his hands over her face. He’d fulfill his obligation to Perry with her, and his debt would be paid in full.
She would be the last to wear the red scarf. That was fitting, he decided. She’d be the highlight of this stage of the work. His crescendo, he thought, with a final homage to Perry.
He was sure already he’d enjoy her most of all. She’d know more pain, more fear than all the others before he was done.
Oh, how people would talk when he took her, when he ended her life. They’d talk of little else. They’d talk and they’d tremble over the man who killed the Perry survivor.
RSKII.
Reading the term made him shake his head, made him chuckle.
Made him preen.
After Fiona lay in the shallow grave he’d force her to dig herself, RSKII would be no more. He would become someone else, something else, find another symbol as he embarked on the next stage of his work.
In a way, he thought, and took another sip of whiskey, Fiona would be the end of him, and the beginning.
MANTZ HUNG UP the phone and knocked a fist on her desk. “I think I’ve got something.”
Tawney glanced away from his monitor. “What?”
“Verifying residence and employment on prison personnel and outside agencies. There’s a Francis X. Eckle, teaches at College Place—English studies, creative writing. He did four stints of instruction at the prison in the past two and a half years. He didn’t go back to work after the winter break. Mailed in a resignation, citing a family emergency.”
“Did you check it out?”
“He doesn’t actually have a family—not a traditional deal. He bumped around in the foster system from the time he was four. He didn’t leave any forwarding information at the school. Both the numbers listed for home and cell have been disconnected.”
“Let’s get more information. Find his caseworkers, some data on his foster homes. No criminal?”
“Not a whiff. No sibs, no spouse, no kids.” Though her voice stayed cool, the light of the hunter sparked in her eyes. “Perry signed in for all four of his classes at the prison. I ran a check on Eckle’s credit cards. Nothing since January. Not a single charge, but he hasn’t canceled them either. That’s off.”
“Yeah, that’s off. He could be dead.”
“This one’s talking to my gut, Tawney. Look, I know you want to try to get out and connect with Bristow today or tomorrow, but I think we need to check this out, talk to people who know him, face-to-face.”
“All right. Let’s check his bank accounts, see if you can get more background. An English teacher?”
“Untenured. Single, lives alone, forty-two years old. The administrator I talked to said Eckle just sort of drifted along, did his job, didn’t make waves. He couldn’t name any particular friends either, and it’s a small school, Tawney.”
That light sparked in Tawney’s eyes, too. “Make the calls. I’ll put in for the travel.”
SIMON COVERED the nearly finished wine cabinet with a tarp. It made him feel a little foolish, but he didn’t want Fiona to see it, or ask him about it. Maybe he didn’t want to think too deeply about the fact that he was making it for her, just because she wanted one.
It had been weird enough waking up and knowing she was there. Not in bed, of course, he mused as he added a third coat of poly to his stump-and-burl-wood sink. If the sun was up, so was Fiona. But she’d been there, in his place, his space.
His bathroom smelled of her, just as his kitchen smelled of the coffee she’d brewed while he’d still been in bed.
And the weird thing? He was okay with it. He’d even been okay, after a moment of puzzlement, when he’d opened a drawer for a spoon and found his flatware organized into type.
He’d thought, glancing around, the kitchen was tidier—but since he wasn’t sure exactly how he’d left it, that was just a maybe.
By the time he’d been ready to start work, she’d fed the dogs, taken them through a quick training session, showered, dressed and watered her flowerpots.
He heard the cars for her first session and had deliberately angled himself on the shop porch so he could check out who got out.
He’d modulated the volume on his music so he could hear her if she called out—and that was a sacrifice. But he remained undisturbed and alone throughout her morning classes.
Even Jaws had deserted him.
Which was fine—better than fine. He didn’t have to worry about getting stray dog hair in the poly or ignoring sticks or balls dropped and that pleading look for playtime.
He’d gotten more templates cut out, several pieces glued up and clamped and now, at what the shop clock said was still just shy of noon, he was giving his sink another coat that brought out the rich grain of the wood, deepened the tones.
He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and paused to watch her and the dog approach.
“Keep them back, will you? This is wet. One shake and they’ll have hair all over it.”
“Sit. Stay. I just thought I’d see if you want a sandwich or . . .”
She stopped, stared. And he had the great satisfaction of seeing her mouth literally drop open. “Oh my God. Is that the stump? That’s my stump?”
“My stump.”
“It’s amazing!” Instinct had her fingers reaching out to touch. He slapped them back.
“Ouch. Okay, sorry, it’s wet. It’s upside down. That’s how it works. Of course.” Sliding her hands in her back pockets to keep them from the reach/slap, Fiona circled the sink.
“The roots form the base, holder, whatever it is for the bowl so it looks like something that grew in a magic forest. Who knew tree roots could look so amazing? Well, you did. But the bowl. What’s the bowl?”
“Burl wood. I found it months back. It needed the right base.”
“The color’s so beautiful. Like glass syrup. It’s just beautiful, Simon. I knew it would be interesting, but I didn’t know it would be beautiful.”
Gushy praise over his work invariably made him itchy. But oddly with her, with that dazzled delight on her face, he felt only satisfaction. “It’s not finished.”
“What will you do with it when it is?
”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged because he’d caught himself wanting to give it to her. It suited her down to the ground. “Maybe sell it, maybe keep it.”
“You’d feel magical every time you washed your hands. I’ll never look at a tree stump the same way again. God, wait until people get a load of this!” She laughed over at him. “Anyway, I’ve got a couple hours until my first afternoon class. If you’re hungry, I can make you a sandwich.”
He considered it, and her. “Listen, I don’t want you to wait on me because if you do I’ll want you to wait on me.”
She took a second. “You know, I understand that, oddly enough. Okay, how about a trade?”
“What kind of trade?”
“I’ll make you a sandwich, and you make me some wood slat things. I wrote down the lengths I want.”
She pulled out a list, handed it to him. He frowned down at it.
“What are they for?”
“For me.” She smiled.
“Fine. You don’t have a width.”
“Oh. Hmm. Like this?” She held her thumb and forefinger together.
“About a quarter inch. What kind of wood?”
“The wood kind—whatever you’ve got around.”
“Finish?”
“Jeez, it’s a lot of decisions. Just that stuff, the clear stuff. I don’t need fancy.”
“Okay. I’ll run them up when I’m done with this.”
“Perfect.”
It worked out okay, Simon thought later. He got a sandwich without having to make it, and they stayed out of each other’s way during the work. Solemn oath or not, she cleaned up after him—subtly. He saw her sweeping off the porch, and when he realized he’d forgotten to restock his shop fridge and went in for a drink, the gleam inside his refrigerator all but blinded him.
He heard the suspicious sound of the washing machine running.
So fine, they’d trade again. He’d build her some new training equipment when he had the chance.
When he stepped back outside, he saw her pacing the backyard with the phone to her ear. Something’s up, he thought, and crossed to her.
