A Killer Christmas

by Cherry Adair

  "I am attracted to you." Joe admired her straightforwardness. He admired a hell of a lot of other things, like the fact that he could see she wasn't wearing a bra under the purple sweater. He’d like to peel- Hey! Up here, pal!

  "I don't give a shit about your scars other than the pain they caused you, and when we make love it will be with all the lights on. No secrets. But this is neither the time nor the place."

  "I think this is the perfect time and place," she told him, hopping off the foot of the bed. "Quick, energetic sex. No strings. No regrets. We wouldn't even have to exchange phone numbers. We've already proved we'd be compatible in bed if those kisses are any indication."

  Already disconcerted by his strong physical attraction to her, Joe wasn’t about to debate her. "I can either sit here and watch over you as you sleep, or I can station myself outside the door," he said roughly, trying to ignore the gentle sway of her unfettered breasts and the way the firelight painted her in shades of amber.

  "Your call. I’m here to protect you, remember? The second this snow lets up, I’ll wake you, and we’ll be outta here. But until then I'm on duty, and won't be sleeping."

  “Okay.” She met his gaze with a level look. "Under the circumstances, I doubt if I’ll sleep either. But to be honest, without a solid five hours sleep, I tend to not function on all cylinders. So, I’d like to at least try to get a few hours in before we leave. I’d feel a lot safer if you were beside me. I don’t mind if you want to leave the lantern on all night. I’d just want. . . ."

  Protection. "Company?"

  She walked over to the window, leaving the scent of fresh pears in her slipstream. "I need to sleep, but I'm too keyed up."

  "There's a gym in the basement." Joe wished to hell she’d land somewhere. All the pacing was making him dizzy. Or was it the clean soapy fragrance of her as she passed him? Or her bra-less state? Or her bare feet- damn it to hell, he was becoming quite attached to her bare, endearingly too large, feet. Joe felt a sharp stab in his belly that was neither pain nor pleasure as she did another circuit of the room.

  With a shake of her head, Kendall opened the door to the armoire which held a mini refrigerator which no doubt still held its temperature and removed a bottle of sweet tea. She held it up. He shook his head. After pouring herself a glass, she resumed pacing, sipping as she walked.

  She stopped to run a hand through her still damp hair. It was the deep, rich orangey-red of an excellent Hennessy cognac. Joe loved a mellow brandy on a cold winter’s night.

  “Not to feel alone tonight. That's what I really meant to say, instead of sex." She gave him an assessing look. "Honestly I haven't been able to stand having anyone touch me in a year and a half. So despite my offer, and in spite of how hot you are, sex would be a mistake for me right now anyway. Thank God one of us is thinking straight."

  She took another sip of cold tea, concentrating on the liquid she was swirling in her glass. Joe wondered if the woman ever relaxed. Hell. If she could relax. Filled with nervous energy she eventually came to perch on the edge of the other chair near the fire.

  Wired and ready to blow she twisted the stem of her glass between her fingers, then looked up to meet his eyes. "I’ve worked my ass off to overcome this knee-jerk reaction every time I hear something behind me. A creak when the house settles, positive every metallic glint I see is a knife."

  Her gaze was steady as she looked at him. "I don’t want Treadwell to win, Joe. I don’t want to live in fear for the rest of my life because of what he did to me. I thought I’d done pretty well up until now. But knowing he’s somewhere out there. Knowing that I’m no longer a random victim to him, but someone he specifically wants to kill terrifies me.”

  She hugged herself. “Before I didn't know what to expect. Now I do."

  "He won’t come within shouting distance of you, honey." Joe kept his voice low and soothing, his gaze away from the frightened, erratic pulse of her heartbeat in her slender white throat. And that scar. Fuck. "Whether we stay or go, I won’t let you out of my sight for the duration. That's a promise."

  SEVEN

  Kendall’s heart throbbed erratically at her boldness, and her stomach twisted with the rejection, even though he was right. Her skin prickled sweaty and hot. She didn't blame him. For God's sake, they'd known each other for all of a minute. He must think she was a nutcase.

  "Hey, don’t worry about it," she told him brightly. "You’ll be sitting right there keeping guard while I sleep, right?"

  "Kendall-" he whispered.

  She lifted her chin.

  His gaze flickered to her throat- the scar- then came back up to meet hers. All she read there was pity. An emotion she’d seen more times than she cared to remember. Thanks to Treadwell, she’d forever be The Surviving Victim. Little else seemed to matter to people.

  She almost remembered a time when people looked upon her with acknowledgement – praise even – for the way she’d picked herself up after the court ordeal. She’d made a life for herself – defined that life. And now that was gone.

  "It's late and I'm three stages beyond exhausted," she inserted around a genuine yawn. After all, what man would want to put his mouth anywhere near the red, welt of a scar? It was a painful truth, one she wasn’t sure she'd ever get used to. She added that to her mental list of reasons for wanting Treadwell to burn in hell.

  She yawned again. "Wake me when it’s time to leave, okay?"

  The tremor she’d been battling since Joe had told her about Treadwell’s escape intensified as she walked across the room to the high, king-sized bed. Why was she mad at him? They didn’t know one another. He’d kissed her. No big deal.

  She tossed the decorator pillows onto the floor with a little more gusto than was warranted, then pulled back the terracotta-colored velvet spread with hands that shook a little.

  Fully dressed, she climbed under the covers, lay on her side and curled into a ball. Her fingers went to her neck. The scar always throbbed when she thought about that night.

  She usually slept naked. Now, with damp hair, and twisty clothes, she was uncomfortable. She also felt antsy, annoyed, and sorry for herself, all of which pissed her off. She didn’t know who she was madder at; Treadwell for creeping back into her life like the rodent he was, or Joe for tempting her, but not being tempted enough by her, or herself for- she didn’t know for what—which annoyed her even more.

  As tired as she was, now she couldn't freaking sleep. She lay still. Not moving, not twitching, not showing Joe that she was awake. That lasted oh, sixty seconds. She had to straighten the sweater that was riding up uncomfortably. Then her leg itched. . .

  The room was warm, but she burrowed under the blankets anyway. Blocking out the flickering light. And Joe. She wanted to bury her head like an ostrich. The problem was, when she came up for air, the situation would be exactly the same.

  She tried to concentrate on just how damn, freaking uncomfortable she was trying to sleep in her clothes. There were only two other subjects to mull over, ponder, dissect, and agonize about. Joe. Or Treadwell.

  One aggravated her, but made her feel protected. The other downright terrified her and made her painfully aware of how vulnerable she was.

  Would she ever believe herself completely safe? God, she hoped so. She’d done every single thing her therapist had told her to do. She’d taken self defense classes, bought a gun, made sure she knew how to use it, and when to use it. She was still faithfully going to therapy.

  A violent criminal victimization is a real-life classical conditioning experience in which being attacked is an unconditioned stimulus that produces unconditioned responses of fear, anxiety, terror, helplessness, pain, and other negative emotions. Any stimuli that are present during the attack are paired with the attack and become conditioned stimuli capable of producing conditioned responses of fear, anxiety, terror, helplessness, and other negative emotions.

  Intellectually she knew she’d be in a much better position to defend herself.This time. B
ut her body was reacting as though she were once again in danger. Her teeth began chattering. How could she be sweating and cold at the same time? A sob broke through the tight constriction of her throat and tears scalded her cheeks as she curled into a fetal position, and hugged herself.

  Oh, God. She was so tired of being afraid.

  Unexpectedly, the mattress dipped, and Joe started to gently towel dry her hair.

  She put up a hand when he touched her head.

  “No, stay put, I’ve got this.” Slowly her muscles relaxed as he massaged her scalp with sure hands. “Close your eyes, I’ve got you.”

  EIGHT

  Will you sleep?" she asked lazily when her hair was towel dried to his satisfaction.

  Joe reached over and repositioned his gun on the bedside table beside him, then swung his legs up on the mattress with his back supported by the headboard.

  Kendall shifted under the covers until she found the perfect spot to rest her cheek in the curve of his shoulder. Joe glided his hand under the sweater to rub her back in slow, lazy circles and her muscles relaxed as she hovered close to sleep.

  It seemed she’d just closed her eyes, but she woke with a scream and bolted upright in bed. Disoriented and shaking she looked around the dimly lit bedroom as if she’d never seen it before.

  Beside her Joe said softly. "Bad dream?"

  Eyes dark and haunted, she nodded, making her hair slide over her shoulders. "He’s out there."

  "No, he’s not," he said with conviction. "Come here, sweetheart." He pulled her back into his arms. "Silva gave us an update not an hour ago, remember? He’s stuck in Boise. That’s seven hours away on a good day. And that’s only if he manages to commandeer another vehicle. If the storm lets up. If he isn’t stopped by one of the roadblocks between here and there. Everyone is looking for the son of a bitch, honey. He won’t get anywhere near you. I promise."

  "He doesn’t have to be anywhere near me to scare me spitless," Kendall said tightly.

  #

  She was shivering hard now. Joe tightened his arms around her and rubbed her back in long soothing strokes. Her bare skin felt warm and silky smooth.

  Except for the raised keloids from nape to waist.

  Fucking, fucking hell.

  "How did you get away that night?" he asked, tightening his arm around her. He knew of course. It had been in the transcripts. But he wanted her to remember taking action. To remember that in the end, she hadn’t been helpless.

  "I’d lost track of time. There was tinfoil over the windows, and I had no idea if it was day or night. Or how long he’d h-had me. He kept me chained to the handle of the oven. There was- b-blood all over me."

  Shit. Bad idea. "But you managed to outsmart the sick fu-bastard and get away, didn’t you?" His own stomach lurched at the thought of the cuts on her body and how terrified she must’ve been.

  “When the first scalpel slipped out of his hand onto the floor, he was livid and showed his anger by kicking me in the ribs. When he left the kitchen, I toed it farther under the stove. I knew I wouldn’t last another round. That was the first time he’d lost his cool and it scared me spitless. For days he’d been cold, detached, clinical. He wasn’t just mad he’d dropped it, he was enraged and let me know it was all my fault.

  “He came back, the clean scalpel in his hand, and said: ‘I’ve enjoyed our time together, Kendall’ and took a key out of his pocket. I thought- Oh, God. He’s going to kill me now."

  She was breathing fast, and Joe stroked her back, listening to her erratic breathing. Fury blazed in his belly as she talked.

  "But he opened the padlock on the chain, then showed me the clean shiny scalpel in the other hand, and hoisted me up off the floor by my hair. He needed me standing. He wanted to add my blood to his wall of s-splatter."

  Christ.

  "He considered himself an artist," she said without inflection. "I was his medium. He told me. . .told me that I had to be positioned just right so that when he sliced my artery, the spray of blood would add to the mural he’d been creating on the-the wall of the trailer."

  The mural that had the blood of dozens of other women dried on it. A challenge for the forensic teams to unravel the DNA. "Jesus, sweetheart. I’m sorry. So sorry. But you beat him at his own game. You got away."

  "I slid the scalpel out with my foot. While he angled me for best effect, then started to cut m-my throat, despite considerable blood loss, I managed to plunge the first scalpel up under his chin. I didn’t have enough energy to stab it right into his jugular, but I cut him badly enough that he shrieked with shock and fell to his knees clutching his bleeding jaw. Then I ran for my life. When I finally got to a road, I saw the lights of a track development barely a mile away.” She rubbed her upper arms. “Someone could have heard me screaming. No one came.”

  When a passing motorist had almost driven over her, he’d called 911 about the naked dead body sprawled in the middle of the road. The Good Samaritan had, thank God, made the call, but Kendall had almost bled out because the man had stayed in his vehicle until the cops arrived.

  "Yes," she burrowed tightly against him, shaking hard enough to shatter. "I got away.”

  At what cost? Joe thought, wrapping her in his arms and holding her tightly. Damn. He hated that he was in a hurry-up-and-wait position. He didn’t like not having options. He had a fantasy of getting Kendall to safety, then returning to the house to wait for Treadwell himself. One on one.

  Before the cops arrived and made a nice, polite arrest, Joe wanted just half an hour with the son of a bitch – breaking every bone in his body. Just long enough to give Dwight Treadwell the punishment he so richly deserved.

  He listened to the storm die down beyond the sealed windows and checked the safety on the H&K as Kendall slept half sprawled over his body. She needed the rest, and it felt damn good having her in his arms, her warm breath moist against his throat.

  NINE

  The snow had stopped an hour ago, and the winds had died down. While Kendall slept, Joe went downstairs to check that the motion sensors were still operational, and made sure the strategically positioned exterior cameras were still clear of snow. All good.

  While he'd always trusted his instincts and gut feelings, this itch on the back of his neck was illogical.

  He, better than anyone else, knew the house was impenetrable. As long as they stayed inside, she'd be safe.

  Still, Joe felt an illogical urgency to get out of the house like a clawing entity inside him.

  The sat phone buzzed in his back pocket as he started going upstairs.

  "Feebs and cops en route. ETA fifty minutes," Silva told him. "Be advised. Treadwell in the wind."

  And there he had it. Fuck.

  On the landing, half way up, he looked out of the high, arched window at the view of the backyard. The perimeter security lights showed a small snow hill. The location of the chopper. Not good.

  Would the damn thing start when they were ready to leave? Even though the storm was easing up and the winds had calmed, some, could it be flown in this weather? He'd been advised not to even try. Fuck that.

  Hoofing it was out.

  The snowmobiles in the garage were a possibility, but the weather was still too iffy to chance it. A snow plow would work, but it was slow as hell, and how far would he have to travel to even get his hands on one?

  "What's the matter," Kendall asked when he returned to the bedroom. She was up and wore socks, no shoes. Twisting her thick hair into a skein, she pinned it to the back of her head.

  The ninety minutes of sleep had pinked her cheeks and brightened her eyes.

  "Other than the weather. The uncertainty. And a serial killer?"

  "The good news is it stopped snowing and blowing about an hour ago. Snow plows are already out clearing main roads and the FBI will be here in about an hour. Bad; Treadwell managed to elude my eye in the sky. The helicopter is covered in a thick blanket of snow. When the Feebs get here, I'll go out and see what con
dition it's in and if it can be flown. If it is, we'll head out to T-FLAC headquarters right away. It's only fifty-four miles away."

  A location impossible to find. Even if a person knew of its existence.

  "Why go anywhere? A gnat can’t get inside the house. We stay put until they catch him, right?"

  "I like options. Ready to go down? Grab your shoes."

  "Downstairs," she told him on the way. "Hang on." Kendall had left a pair of bright blue, fur-lined, knee-high boots in the hall closet, and plopped herself down on the area rug to pull them on.

  Joe held out his hand to pull her up when she was done. "Man. I’d give a year’s pay to see you in those- and nothing else."

  "Yeah?" Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she came up beside him in a smooth move he had to admire. "That can be arranged."

  "I’ll consider that a promise and take a rain check.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. He knew she was scared, and he wasn’t going to diminish that emotion by pretending he wasn’t aware of her feelings. As much as he sympathized, her fear would keep her on her toes.

  He should be feeling a mild form of relief at this point. The storm had relented enough for them to leave. He had ample backup, the means to leave quickly, and there had been no reported sightings of Treadwell for almost five hours.

  Instead Joe felt a tightening at the back of his neck.

  Something was off. There was the sense- Fuck it- the anticipation- of impending danger.

  He'd been a counterterrorist operative for fifteen years and trusted his gut.

  Treadwell was close. Too close.

  "Want a cookie? Neither do I," she tossed the one she held back onto the animal plate as she passed. "No hot coffee," she told him brightly as she opened the dark refrigerator. "I can make another pot for that all important caffeine jolt. Or a Coke?"

  "Pass."

  He snagged her arm as she passed, drawing her against him to cup her cheek. Her skin felt cold despite the warmth of the house.