by J. R. Ward
Almost immediately one of her phone lines rang, and she checked the screen for caller ID. She knew the number. And the police had told her it was a pay phone. Downtown.
It was her caller.
The phone rang a second time and she picked up, following the hotline's script "Suicide Prevention Hotline, this is Mary. How may I help you?"
Silence. Not even breathing.
Dimly, she heard the hum of a car engine flare and then fade in the background. According to the police's audit of incoming calls, the person always phoned from the street and varied his location so he couldn't be traced.
"This is Mary. How may I help you?" She dropped her voice and broke protocol. "I know it's you, and I'm glad you're reaching out tonight again. But please, can't you tell me your name or what's wrong?"
She waited. The phone went dead.
"Another one of yours?" Rhonda asked, taking a sip from a mug of herbal tea.
Mary hung up. "How did you know?"
The woman nodded across her shoulder. "I heard a lot of rings out there, but no one got farther than the greeting. Then all of a sudden you were hunched over your phone."
"Yeah, well—"
"Listen, the cops got back to me today. There's nothing they can do short of assigning details to every pay phone in town, and they're not willing to go that far at this point."
"I told you. I don't feel like I'm in danger."
"You don't know that you're not."
"Come on, Rhonda, this has been going on for nine months now, right? If they were going to jump me, they would have already. And I really want to help—"
"That's another thing I'm concerned about. You clearly feel like protecting whoever the caller is. You're getting too personal."
"No, I'm not. They're calling here for a reason, and I know I can take care of them."
"Mary, stop. Listen to yourself." Rhonda pulled a chair over and lowered her voice as she sat down. "This is… hard for me to say. But I think you need a break."
Mary recoiled. "From what?"
"You're here too much."
"I work the same number of days as everyone else."
"But you stay here for hours after your shift is through, and you cover for people all the time. You're too involved. I know you're substituting for Bill right now, but when he comes I want you to leave. And I don't want you back here for a couple of weeks. You need some perspective. This is hard, draining work, and you have to have a proper distance from it."
"Not now, Rhonda. Please, not now. I need to be here now more than ever."
Rhonda gently squeezed Mary's tense hand. "This isn't an appropriate place for you to work out your own issues, and you know that. You're one of the best volunteers I've got, and I want you to come back. But only after you've had some time to clear your head."
"I may not have that kind of time," Mary whispered under her breath.
"What?"
Mary shook herself and forced a smile. "Nothing. Of course, you're right. I'll leave as soon as Bill comes in."
Bill arrived about an hour later, and Mary was out of the building in two minutes. When she got home, she shut her door and leaned back against the wood panels, listening to all the silence. The horrible, crushing silence.
God, she wanted to go back to the hotline's offices. She needed to hear the soft voices of the other volunteers. And the phones ringing. And the drone of the fluorescent lights in the ceiling…
Because with no distractions, her mind flushed up terrible images: Hospital beds. Needles. Bags of drugs hanging next to her. In an awful mental snapshot, she saw her head bald and her skin gray and her eyes sunken until she didn't look like herself, until she wasn't herself.
And she remembered what it felt like to cease being a person. After the doctors started treating her with chemo, she'd quickly sunk into the fragile underclass of the sick, the dying, becoming nothing more than a pitiful, scary reminder of other people's mortality, a poster child for the terminal nature of life.
Mary darted across the living room, shot through the kitchen, and threw open the slider. As she burst out into the night, fear had her gasping for breath, but the shock of frosty air slowed her lungs down.
You don't know that anything's wrong. You don't know what it is…
She repeated the mantra, trying to pitch a net on the thrashing panic as she headed for the pool.
The Lucite in-ground was no more than a big hot tub, and its water, thickened and slowed by the cold, looked like black oil in the moonlight. She sat down, took off her shoes and socks, and dangled her feet in the icy depths. She kept them submerged even when they numbed, wishing she had the gumption to jump in and swim down to the grate at the bottom. If she held on to the thing for long enough, she might be able to anesthetize herself completely.
She thought of her mother. And how Cissy Luce had died in her own bed in the house the two of them had always called home.
Everything about that bedroom was still so clear: The way the light had come through the lace curtains and landed on things in a snowflake pattern. Those pale yellow walls and the off-white wall-to-wall rug. That comforter her mother had loved, the one with the little pink roses on a cream background. The smell of nutmeg and ginger from a dish of potpourri. The crucifix above the curving headboard and the big Madonna icon on the floor in the corner.
The memories burned, so Mary forced herself to see the room as it had been after everything was over, the illness, the dying, the cleaning up, the selling of the house. She saw it right before she'd moved out. Neat. Tidy. Her mother's Catholic crutches packed away, the faint shadow left by the cross on the wall covered by a framed Andrew Wyeth print.
The tears wouldn't stay put. They came slowly, relentlessly, falling into the water. She watched them hit the surface and disappear.
When she looked up, she was not alone.
Mary leaped to her feet and stumbled back, but stopped herself, wiping her eyes. It was just a boy. A teenage boy. Dark-haired, pale-skinned. So thin he was emaciated, so beautiful he didn't look human.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, not particularly afraid. It was hard to be scared of anything that angelic. "Who are you?
He just shook his head.
"Are you lost?" He sure looked it. And it was too cold for him to be out just in the jeans and T-shirt he was wearing. "What's your name?"
He lifted a hand to his throat and moved it back and forth while shaking his head. As if he were a foreigner and frustrated by the language barrier.
"Do you speak English?
He nodded and then his hands started flying around. American Sign Language. He was using ASL.
Mary reached back to her old life, when she'd trained her autistic patients to use their hands to communicate.
Do you read lips or can you hear? she signed back at him.
He froze, as if her understanding him had been the last thing he'd expected.
I can hear very well. I just can't talk.
Mary stared at him for a long moment. "You are the caller."
He hesitated. Then nodded his head. I never meant to scare you. And I don't call to annoy you. I just… like to know you're there. But there's nothing weird to it, honest. I swear.
His eyes met hers steadily.
"I believe you." Except what did she do now? The hotline prohibited contact with callers.
Yeah, well, she wasn't about to kick the poor kid off her property.
"You want something to eat?"
He shook his head. Maybe I could just sit with you awhile? I'll stay on the other side of the pool.
As if he were used to people telling him to get away from them.
"No," she said. He nodded once and turned away. "I mean, sit down here. Next to me."
He came at her slowly, as if expecting her to change her mind. When all she did was sit down and put her feet back in the pool, he took off a pair of ratty sneakers, rolled up his baggy pants, and picked a spot about three feet from her.
; God, he was so small.
He slipped his feet in the water and smiled.
It's cold, he signed.
"You want a sweater?"
He shook his head and moved his feet in circles.
"What's your name?"
John Matthew.
Mary smiled, thinking they had something in common. "Two New Testament prophets."
The nuns gave it to me.
"Nuns?"
There was a long pause, as if he were debating what to tell her.
"You were in an orphanage?" she prompted gently. She recalled that there was still one in town, run by Our Lady of Mercy.
I was born in a bathroom stall in a bus station. The janitor who found me took me to Our Lady. The nuns thought up the name.
She kept her wince to herself. "Ah, where do you live now? Were you adopted?
He shook his head.
"Foster parents?" Please, God, let there be foster parents. Nice foster parents. Who kept him warm and fed. Good people who told him he mattered even if his parents had deserted him.
When he didn't reply, she eyed his old clothes, and the older expression on his face. He didn't look as if he'd known a lot of nice.
Finally, his hands moved. My place is on Tenth Street.
Which meant he was either a poacher living in a condemned building or a tenant in a rat-infested hovel. How he managed to be so clean was a miracle.
"You live around the hotline's offices, don't you? Which was how you knew I was on this evening even though it wasn't my shift."
He nodded. My apartment is across the street. I watch you come and go, but not in a sneaky way. I guess I think of you as a friend. When I called the first time… you know, it was on a whim or something. You answered… and I liked the way your voice sounded.
He had beautiful hands, she thought. Like a girl's. Graceful. Delicate.
"And you followed me home tonight?"
Pretty much every night. I have a bike, and you're a slow driver. I figure if I watch over you, you'll be safer. You stay so late, and that's not a good part of town for a woman to be alone in. Even if she's in a car.
Mary shook her head, thinking he was an odd one. He looked like a child, but his words were those of a man. And all things considered, she probably should be creeped out. This kid latching on to her, thinking he was some kind of protector even though it looked as if he were the one who needed to be rescued.
Tell me why you were crying just now, he signed.
His eyes were very direct, and it was eerie to have an adult male stare anchored by a child's face.
"Because I might be out of time," she blurted.
"Mary? Are you up for a visit?"
Mary looked over her right shoulder. Bella, her only neighbor, had walked across the two acre meadow that ran between their properties and was standing on the edge of the lawn.
"Hey, Bella. Ah, come meet John."
Bella glided up to the pool. The woman had moved into the big old farmhouse a year ago and they'd taken to talking at night. At six feet tall, and with a mane of dark waves that fell to the small of her back, Bella was a total knockout. Her face was so beautiful it had taken Mary months to stop staring, and the woman's body was right off the cover of Sports Illustrated's swimsuit edition.
So naturally John was looking awestruck.
Mary wondered idly what it would be like to get that reception from a man, even a prepubescent one. She'd never been beautiful, falling instead into that vast category of women who were neither bad-looking nor good-looking. And that had been before chemo had done a number on her hair and skin.
Bella leaned down with a slight smile and offered her hand to the boy. "Hi."
John reached up and touched her briefly, as if he weren't sure she was real. Funny, Mary had often felt the same way about the woman. There was something too… much about her. She just seemed larger than life, more vivid than the other people Mary ran into. Certainly more gorgeous.
Although Bella sure didn't act the part of the femme fatale. She was quiet and unassuming and she lived alone, apparently working as a writer. Mary never saw her in the daytime, and no one ever seemed to come or go out of the old farmhouse.
John looked at Mary, his hands moving. Do you want me to leave?
Then, as if anticipating her answer, he pulled his feet from the water.
She put her hand on his shoulder, trying to ignore the sharp thrust of bone just under his shirt.
"No. Stay."
Bella took off her running shoes and socks and flicked her toes over the surface of the water. "Yeah, come on, John. Stay with us."
CHAPTER 4
Rhage saw the first one he wanted tonight. She was a blond human female, all sexed-up and ready to go. Like the rest of her kind in the bar, she'd been throwing him signals: Flashing her ass. Fluffing her teased hair.
"Find something you like?" V said dryly.
Rhage nodded and crooked his finger at the female. She came when called. He liked that in a human.
He was tracking the shift of her hips when his view was blocked by another tight female body. He looked up and forced his eyes not to roll.
Caith was one of his kind, and beautiful enough with her black hair and those dark eyes. But she was a Brother chaser, always sniffing around, offering herself. He had the sense she saw them as prizes, something to brag about. And how irritating was that.
As far as he was concerned, she put the itch in bitch.
"Hey, Vishous," she said in a low, sexy voice.
"Evenin', Caith." V took a sip of his Grey Goose. "What up?"
"Wondering what you're doing."
Rhage looked around Caith's hips. Thank God the blonde wasn't put off by a little competition. She was still coming toward the table.
"You going to say hello, Rhage?" Caith prompted.
"Only if you get out of the way. You're blocking my view."
The female laughed. "Another of your cast of thousands. How lucky she is."
"You wish, Caith."
"Yes, I do." Her eyes, predatory and hot, glided over him. "Maybe you'd like to hang with Vishous and me?"
As she reached out to stroke his hair, he caught her wrist. "Don't even try it."
"How is it you'll do so many humans and deny me?"
"Just not interested."
She leaned down, talking into his ear. "You should try me sometime."
He jerked her away from him, tightening his hand on her bones.
"That's right, Rhage, squeeze harder. I like it when it hurts." He let go immediately, and she smiled while rubbing her wrist. "So are you busy, V?"
"I'm settling in right now. But maybe a little later."
"You know where to find me."
When she left, Rhage glanced over at his brother. "I don't know how you can stand her."
V tossed back his vodka, watching the female with hooded eyes. "She has her attributes."
The blonde arrived, stopping in front of Rhage and striking a little pose. He put both hands on her hips and pulled her forward so she straddled his thighs.
"Hi," she said, moving against his hold. She was busy looking him over, sizing up his clothes, eyeing the heavy gold Rolex peeking out from under his trench coat's sleeve. The calculation in her eyes was as cold as the center of his chest.
God, if he could have left he would have; he was so sick of this shit. But his body needed the release, demanded it. He could feel his drive rising, and as always, that god-awful burn left his dead heart in the dust.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Tiffany."
"Nice to meet you, Tiffany," he said, lying.
Less than ten miles away, at Mary's pool in her backyard, she, John, and Bella were having a surprisingly jolly time.
Mary laughed out loud and looked at John. "You're not serious."
It's true. I shuttled back and forth between the theaters.
"What did he say?" Bella asked, grinning.
"He saw The Matrix four time
s the day it opened."
The woman laughed. "John, I'm sorry to break this to you, but that's pathetic."
He beamed at her, blushing a little.
"Did you get into the whole Lord of the Rings thing, too?" she asked.
He shook his head, signed, and looked expectantly at Mary.
"He says he likes martial arts," she translated. "Not elves."
"Can't blame him there. That whole hairy feet thing? Can't do it."
A gust of wind came up, teasing fallen leaves into the pool. As they floated by, John reached out and grabbed one.
"What's that on your wrist?" Mary asked.
John held his arm out so she could inspect the leather bracelet. There were orderly markings on it, some kind of cross between hieroglyphics and Chinese characters.
"That's gorgeous."
I made it.
"May I see?" Bella asked, leaning over. Her smile disintegrated and her eyes narrowed on John's face. "Where did you get this?"
"He says he made it."
"Where did you say you're from?"
John retracted his arm, clearly a little unnerved by Bella's sudden focus.
"He lives here," Mary said. "He was born here."
"Where are his parents?"
Mary faced her friend, wondering why Bella was so intense. "He doesn't have any."
"None?"
"He told me he grew up in the foster-care system, right, John?"
John nodded and cradled his arm against his stomach, protecting the bracelet.
"Those markings," Bella prompted. "Do you know what they mean?"
The boy shook his head and then winced and rubbed his temples. After a moment, his hands signed slowly.
"He says they don't mean anything," Mary murmured. "He just dreams of them and he likes the way they look. Bella, ease off, okay?"
The woman seemed to catch herself. "Sorry. I… ah, I'm really sorry."
Mary glanced at John and tried to take the pressure off him. "So what other movies do you like?"
Bella got to her feet and shoved on her running shoes. Without the socks. "Will you guys excuse me for a moment? I'll be right back."
Before Mary could say anything, the woman jogged across the meadow. When she was out of earshot, John looked up at Mary. He was still wincing.
