by J. R. Ward
The first line against chaos. And to think she’d always assumed the anal retentiveness would help, a kind of talisman against the whirlpool of life, a way of taming the hard edges of fate.
Wasn’t doing anything for her at the moment. Not about her heading to see G.B. at noontime to tell him she was kind of in a relationship with someone else. Not with the desperate anticipation she had for nightfall.
Certainly not at all with what she was about to do.
“Shit.”
Bracing herself, she went over to the door that led down into the cellar. It took her a moment before she could turn the knob and pull the panels open and reach forward to flick the light switch. As the fixture came on, the rough wooden steps were illuminated, as was the dark gray concrete floor below. The scent that rose to her nose was both earthy from the fifties-era concrete walls, and sweet from her fabric softener sheets.
Long trip down. A kind of forever to reach the bottom.
She didn’t head over to her washing machine and ironing board. She went in the opposite direction, to the sealed plastic tubs that held her Christmas decorations and lights, and her Halloween things, and that sleeping bag she’d only used once or twice.
It was past all that that she kept her artwork on shelves, her tubes of drawings and flat boxes of paintings and so much more ordered chronologically by medium.
The things she had taken out of Sissy’s locker at school were right where she’d put them. Cait had had to move some of her own pastels onto the floor to make room, something she had never felt comfortable doing before—especially not in the spring, when the rains came and leaks happened.
But as important as her things were, Sissy’s were so much more so.
The hands that had made them were gone forever.
It took Cait a couple of trips to carry the folios and the box up to her kitchen table. And after a moment, she thought better about the placement and moved them away from the window. Maybe she should have left them downstairs? It wasn’t like she was going to forget to bring them to the funeral at St. Patrick’s.
Staring at it all, she stepped back in time, reversing the mental DVD of her life until she was once again twelve and living under the same roof with her parents. After her brother had died, she had been the one to pack up his things: Her mother and father had disappeared within days of the burial, going off on the first of all those mission trips, her grandmother moving in to take care of her.
She’d like her grandmother just fine, but it had felt like both she and Charlie had been deserted. And that sense had intensified when her parents had called a week later and said that they were bringing home a preacher who needed a place to stay for a month. In that small house, where else were they going to put the guy but Charlie’s room?
It had seemed an insult to let some stranger sleep in her brother’s bed or use his bureau and his closet, all while his clothes and car magazines and CDs were all over the place.
Using her own allowance money, she’d bought U-Haul boxes, and put everything in the attic … and when she had moved out east, she had taken it with her.
For all their pontificating, her parents had never really talked to her about the loss. Plenty of generic praying advice, yes, and she had to admit, the cynic in her aside, she had done some of that on her own. Still did. But she could have used some more conventional support in the form of talking, hugs, understanding, compassion.
Then again, her brother had always been her family.
It was weird, weird, weird to be thinking of all of this right now. But another funeral of another young life lost too early was likely to bring up things that were unresolved—
The knocking on her door was probably the FedEx man delivering the supply of pencils she’d ordered last week.
Wiping her cheeks on a just-in-case, she took out her scrunchie and re-pulled her hair back as she went for the door.
Not FedEx, although the box had been left on her front stoop.
Teresa was dressed in a pale blue business suit that did absolutely nothing for her coloring, and she was pissed, hands on her hips, glare on her face. “You never call, you never write. You suck. Now let me in—I have forty-five minutes before I have to be back to the office, and you’re going to tell me everything.”
Her oldest and dearest pushed past her, marching into the kitchen and sitting down next to all the artwork.
“So.” Teresa crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her high-heeled shoe. “What’s happening—”
Cait burst into tears.
“Oh, shit.” Teresa jumped up and went in for the hug. “I’m such an ass. Are you okay? What’s wrong? If he hurt you, I’ll screw his reputation twelve ways to Sunday on the Internet. And key his car. And do some other stuff that you won’t want to know about beforehand, but will certainly read of in the CCJ.”
Cait held on tight. It was a while before she could say anything intelligent—but that was the thing with true friends.
They didn’t necessarily need to hear the details of where you were … to be there for you.
Another one?
As Duke walked into the Shed and heard his name get called out, he eyed the guy standing by the muni truck he himself had been assigned to for the shift. Man, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had two subs in three days working with him. Maybe they’d fired the first? Turned out that one had had a bad limp, and though the city of Caldwell didn’t discriminate, it was hard to be a laborer if you couldn’t even stand up for any period of time.
“So are you Duke Phillips?” the man asked.
“Yeah. You with me for the day?” he muttered as he walked over with the keys.
“Yup.”
“Well, I drive.” Duke unlocked the doors and got in. “And set the route.”
“No problem.”
“We’re going to be ripping out a hedgerow,” Duke said, as they shut their doors and he started the engine. “After that, we’ve got inventory to do.”
“What’s that?”
Duke drove them out of the garage and into the sunlight. He’d come in at eleven, and was grateful for the extra hour of work. With any luck, he’d be back to full-time in another week or ten days.
“We drive through parks and cemeteries and make up a work list for the spring cleanup. If the projects are approved, we get more hours.”
“Can I smoke in here?”
“Doesn’t bother me.” At least he wouldn’t get a contact high, like he did at home with Rolly’s pot. “Crack a window, though, so I don’t have to hear about it.”
As Duke’s phone went off, he took the thing out. Checked the screen. Closed his eyes for a split second and then bumped the call.
It was Nicole. Wanting to talk about the kid, no doubt.
Man, the last thing he wanted to hear was that there was more trouble at school. That Nicole was taking a second go at having Duke talk to him. That that quicksand of madness was trying to suck him in again.
He set the terms between the three of them. No one else.
Besides, he had enough on his plate.
“Bad call?” the guy beside him asked.
Duke let the question slide. He was not interested in getting familiar with the fathead in the passenger seat—and he was certainly not going to let the stranger into his biz. Hell, he didn’t allow that with people he knew.
Fortunately, there was no more talking as he took them into town, the rural miles and then the suburban blocks getting eaten up fast.
“So, I know you,” the guy said as they hit some traffic going into the thick of downtown.
Duke glanced across the seat. Nope, he didn’t recognize his one-shift partner. But that didn’t mean the man hadn’t been in line at the Iron Mask or something—although that hardly counted as “knowing.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yeah, I do.” The man flicked the tip off his Marlboro out of the window crack and put the dead butt in his jacket pocket. “I know that you’re going to fac
e a crossroads soon, and you’re going to have to make a choice. I’m here to help you do the right thing.”
What the fuck?
Duke hit the brakes to stop at a red light, and turned to face Mr. Chatty. Time to set the ground rules before this became the longest workday of his life. “You and I have six hours where we are required to be … together … in … this…”
Duke let the screw-you wind down into silence as he met the man’s eyes. Strange eyes. Strange color.
Just like the other “worker” he’d been paired with.
Abruptly, a cotton-wool feeling came over him—talk about your contact highs. It was a little like what he’d felt when he was around his star boarder for too long while Rolly was toking up—but it was so much more than that.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” the man said. “In another block and a half, you’re going to turn right and take us down to the river. We’re going to parallel-park and take a walk in the park so the GPS on this truck reports that we’ve done our job. But we’re not going to be digging out any bushes. You’re going to tell me where you’re at—we’re almost out of time and I need to be up to speed quick.”
Duke blinked. And then his phone started ringing again.
He took it out slowly. As he saw who was calling, he looked back at the man. With a feeling of total unreality, he heard himself say, “Do you know … a woman with brunette hair?”
As that psychic crackpot from Trade Street went into Duke’s voice mail, it was somehow not a surprise that the man beside him nodded slowly.
“Yeah, I do. And we need to keep you away from her.”
Somewhere deep in his marrow, Duke knew that this was what he’d been waiting his whole adult life for. He’d always had some sense that things were not normal for him, no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise—and that was the reason he’d gone to that psychic for all those years.
It was also the “why” behind his nightmares, the ones he told nobody about.
Duke’s phone let out a beep, notifying him that a new message had been left for him.
Through the fog that had settled into his brain, he watched his thumb move over the smooth screen, calling the voice mail up … and then he put the cell up to his ear.
“Duke, this is Yasemin Oaks—you must come see me. At the very least, I need to speak with you urgently. The dreams are getting more intense—you are in danger—please, Duke, I’m warning you. Blood is going to flow and—”
“The light’s green,” the man next to him announced. “Hit the gas and take us down to the river. It’s time, Duke. We’ve got shit to take care of.”
For some strange reason, Duke thought of Cait. Beautiful Cait.
“I don’t know you,” he said roughly.
“You don’t have to. But you need to trust me.”
Snap out of it, he told himself. This is all bullcrap.
“Not going to happen,” he heard himself say.
Abruptly, he put his phone away. Pushed his foot down on the accelerator. And was ready to go anywhere except over to the water—just to establish who was in charge.
After a moment, he glanced over at the other man. The son of a bitch was sitting in the passenger seat, jaw set like he knew exactly how this was going to play out.
Duke cursed under his breath. Yeah, no way he was telling this guy anything … and yet he couldn’t ignore the sense of foreboding that was dogging him. Besides, he’d wanted to end this shit for so long, even as he was knee-deep in it right now. The trouble was, old habits, like bitter resentments, died hard.
“You don’t have much of a choice,” the man said. “You need me if you want to come out of this in one piece.”
One piece? Duke thought. Hah. I’m already broken.
“You’re going to tell me everything, Duke. You have to.”
Chapter
Forty
As Cait parallel-parked on Trade Street, no more than a block away from the Palace Theatre, she frowned and leaned into the windshield. It wasn’t because she was lost this time, though. As opposed to when she’d been trying to find the hair salon a couple of nights ago, she had no confusion as to the theater’s location.
The issue was the police.
There were six or seven Caldwell Police Department vehicles parked in front of the Palace, and about half a dozen uniformed officers milling around outside the main entrance.
Getting out into the sunshine, she pulled her light coat in tighter and slung her bag over her shoulder. She had to wait for a stream of traffic to go by, but eventually there was a break in the cars and she jaywalked across.
Probably not the smartest thing to do in front of a cop convention, but it sure seemed like the unis had bigger fish to fry than her.
As she approached the knot of officers, several of them turned to her.
“Hi,” she said, blinking in the glare of their badges. “I’m here to meet a friend for lunch?”
The tallest one, an African-American guy with a voice that suggested you really did not mess with him, spoke up. “Who would that be?”
“G. B. Holde? He’s a singer—he’s here rehearsing for Rent?”
“You’re meeting him for what?”
Abruptly, they were all focused on her, measuring her, no doubt taking mental pictures and notes. “Lunch? We were going to have a sandwich together?”
“Is this a regular thing?”
“Um, no. We made the date—er, you know, the time—last night?”
“Do you know him well?”
“Why are you here? What’s happened?”
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Cait. Caitlyn Douglass?” Maybe they were violating her rights, she didn’t know. But she had nothing to hide. “Is he okay?”
“We can’t let you inside, ma’am, I’m sorry. This is a crime scene.”
Cait felt the blood leave her face. “Who died?”
“A young female.”
Which meant G.B. was okay—and yet the intel was not any kind of relief. “Oh … God.” Was it a case of Sissy all over again? Or … “I was chased in the parking lot the other night. You don’t suppose this had anything to do with—”
“When was that, ma’am?”
Even more police officers clustered around her as she told them all what had happened to her. And then an exhausted man in a loose suit came out of the theater’s glass doors.
“Detective?” someone called out. “We got a female over here.”
A man with dark hair and a way-too-early-in-the-day five o’clock shadow walked across the mosaic stretch and put his hand out. “Detective de la Cruz. How you doing?”
Shaking his hand, she instantly felt comfortable with him. “Hi.”
“You’ve got quite a crowd here.” He nodded at his colleagues. “They’re nosy—and paid to be that way. Me, too. So you mind telling me what’s going on with you?”
In quick, clear terms, she explained everything that had happened to her the other night, and as she talked, he scribbled in a little spiral notebook.
“Well, I’m sorry you were chased like that.” He put his notebook away. “Any follow-up on the perpetrator?”
“No. I haven’t called, and no one’s been in touch.”
“I’ll check back at the station and let you know one way or the other. As for your lunch, I’m sorry, but we can’t let you in. Everybody who’s working in the theater is being questioned by my team. As for this …” He took the notepad out again and flipped the cover open. “This G.B. guy? Is that the man you were going to meet?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, he’s going to be busy for a while.”
She frowned. “Detective, can you tell me anything about what’s going on?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t. But you’ll hear about it tonight on the news,” he said dryly as a van with a satellite dish on its roof pulled up across the street. “However, if you want me to get a message to G.B., I’d be happy to carry it in.”
“I just want him to know I came … and that I hope he’s okay.”
Which was stupid. Someone had died. Nothing was okay.
After she got back to her car, she started her engine and pulled out of her spot. She didn’t have any idea where she was going, although she did text G.B. at a stoplight, just in case the detective got busy or forgot.
With any luck, he would volunteer an update.
Hitting another stoplight, she made a random turn. And another. And even more, until she realized she was literally going nowhere. Pulling over, she found herself in Caldwell’s financial district, the thicket of skyscrapers blocking out the light, the pedestrians all in gray and black like shadows of real people.
She really needed to just go home, she thought—even as she put the car in park and sat back in her seat.
Man, one thing that sucked as you got older was that you had so many more associations with things. A couple of years ago, she might have gone to that theater, heard that someone she didn’t know had been killed, and probably only had a moment’s pause. Now? After Sissy Barten’s brutal murder, she was stuck in a domino effect that took her right back to that hospital, when her brother had been taken off the ventilator.
He should have been wearing a helmet. Goddamn him, he knew he wasn’t supposed to skateboard without a helmet.
But teenagers were clueless enough to believe their skulls were stronger than concrete.
That had been the transformative part for her, she realized. If he’d only been properly prepared, he would have been okay—he would have survived the impact.
That had been the basis of the fixation on order for her: the idea that if you just made sure you were always neat and prepared, you’d be safe. If you put on a helmet, you would never be injured. If you always wore your seat belt, and got regular checkups, and flossed and brushed, and never, ever took a step without first considering what kind of padding and safety equipment you needed…
She thought of Thom: If you stuck with nice guys who you weren’t really passionate about, you wouldn’t have to worry about getting your heart broken.
