Deep Within The Shadows (The Superstition Series Book 1)

by Teresa Reasor

  Exhaustion pressed down on him. It had been days since he’d had more than a couple of hours of sleep at a time. Like a bat, he’d slept in complete darkness only to wake every few minutes, his heart racing.

  Would being arrested finally end this? Would whoever had sent the monsters be satisfied, knowing he was behind bars? The things he and Willy had done. His eyes stung again. He’d had weeks of sobriety to contemplate it. He should never have tried to kidnap that woman.

  “Abbott.”

  He jerked his head up at the deputy Bowhan’s voice, a momentary panic sending his blood rushing through his chest. He hadn’t even heard him approach. Had he fallen asleep?

  “It’s your lucky day. Scott’s wife swung by and brought him another supper by mistake. It’s yours if you want it.”

  “Hell, yeah, I want it.” He gripped the metal sink and hauled himself to his feet. His mouth had begun to water before he ever reached for the paper bag and plastic water bottle. “Thanks, man.”

  “Thank Scott next time you see him.”

  “I will.” He was already tearing into the paper bag and taking out the sandwich and potato chips before the Deputy turned and padded back down the hall.

  Gerald tossed the empty bag on the blue blanket covering the lower bunk and returned to his seat against the wall. When he took the first bite of the sandwich, he groaned in pleasure. Roast beef, sliced thin, with mayonnaise, lettuce and tomato. He’d never tasted anything so good. The chips were barbecue, salty and sweet. He crammed them into his mouth a handful at a time, scattering greasy crumbs all the way down his clean orange prison uniform.

  After three bites of the sandwich and two handfuls of potato chips, his stomach was already feeling better. He forced himself to slow down and savor the food. It might be a while before he got anything but bologna, since the jail was famous for serving the cheap meat and plastic-tasting processed cheese at every meal.

  Ten minutes later he licked his fingers and even the inside of the potato chip bag to get the last few crumbs. It was probably the best meal he’d ever had. He cracked the lid on the water bottle and took a deep drink. Now his stomach was full, his weariness returned. Still not trusting the position of his bunk, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

  A flicker of color teased his eyelids, turning the inside pink and he opened his eyes a slit. A strange sheen came from the paper bag he’d ripped open. Two long, clear, almost clawlike legs gripped the side of the cot, and the creature attached to the legs dragged itself forward, bag and all. It was a spider, only bigger. He hated spiders.

  His heart hammered against his ribs. Bile filled his throat as he pressed back against the wall. He wanted to move, needed to move, but his limbs felt heavy and uncooperative as a numbing paralysis gripped him.

  He was dreaming. He was asleep and fucking dreaming. He needed to wake up. Please let me wake up!

  The paper ripped and the creature shook free. It poised, hunched on the cot, swaying back and forth in a threatening dance.

  It was going to jump on him, bite him. Gerald’s feet dug at the floor, but the flimsy slip-on house shoes the guards had given him had no traction. He had to scramble onto his knees to get to his feet, and then he hugged the wall.

  The spider bunched its eight long legs and leapt. Gerald gasped and threw up an arm, expecting it to land on him. When nothing happened, he lowered the limb to find the thing clinging to the well-lit area opposite the bunk.

  An odd rainbow patch of refracted light shone on the floor. As he gazed up at the creature, tiny sections started spilling off it down the wall, and he realized they were smaller spiders. As each took its position, the patches of light connected to a narrow point of shimmering color leading straight to him.

  Gerald’s throat seized with fear, his heartbeat sluggish and his breath coming in harsh gasps. He pushed his way around the sink and cringed behind it into the corner. His bony elbows burned as they scraped against the cinderblock walls.

  A large gray shape rose from the diagonal band of light at the end of the cell.

  A scream built in Gerald’s chest, but his throat closed around it like a vise. His breath huffed in and out in an asthmatic wheeze. His words “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” were no more than a whisper of thought.

  The shadow danced along the fractured light on the floor to that small peak. Only part of its body was visible, the rest lost in the darkness around it.

  Gerald dragged air into his lungs. “I’m sorry. I’msorry­I’msorry­I’msorry. I never meant to kill him.” It was a lie. He’d been high on cocaine, his drug of choice, and he’d been hot to get to the girl so he and Willy could share her. He’d killed Tanner Newton with no more feeling than he’d have had stepping on a roach. “Ain’t it enough they’re gonna keep me in here for the rest of my life?”

  The gray form swayed back and forth, its eyeless face glaring at him, soulless and hungry.

  It dissolved like so much smoke. At the disappearance of the reflected light on the floor, Gerald scanned the room for the spiders. They were gone.

  Had he been hallucinating? Coming off the cocaine, he’d had some flashbacks that had seemed just as real.

  The squeak of shoes on the tile floor preceded Scott’s appearance. “You okay, Abbott?”

  Gerald’s muscles shook when he came out from behind the sink. “Yeah. Thanks for the food. It was real good.”

  “You’re welcome.” Scott gave the empty bag on the bunk a pointed look. “Square away your trash and get some sleep.” Scott moved on down the aisle.

  “Okay.” Gerald sank onto the lower bunk and sucked in a shuddering breath. Spying the torn bag next to him, he lashed out, batting it across the cell where it glanced off the wall.

  The few moments of terror had drained his remaining strength. He couldn’t continue like this. Tears trickled out of the corners of his eyes, and he curled up in the bunk, his back against the wall and his knees drawn up.

  They’d be back and he had nowhere to go. He shivered and dragged the heavy wool blanket up over him. It smelled of some kind of detergent.

  After the adrenaline rush of terror, it took several minutes for him to relax. His eyes grew heavy. For nearly half an hour he fought the pull of sleep until he could struggle no longer.

  He woke with the sensation of choking. Something was lodged in his throat. He looked down at the blanket. A thousand tiny spiders, their bodies glistening like glass, rushed up the blanket, over his arms, his chest. He kicked and batted at them, a scream locked in his chest by the obstruction.

  He tried to keep his mouth closed, but the spiders forced their way into his nose. The sensation of them crawling down into his body, eating into his flesh, triggered a seizure of panic. The pain surged, beyond unbearable. Something exploded in his chest. Darkness feathered the outer edges of his vision. Empty blackness closed in around him.

  Chapter 9

  Juliet studied Detective Robinson as he led her back to the observation room. He was at least six-three or four, and he towered over her in her stocking feet. His fingers had clasped lightly around her upper arm, as though he expected her to make a break for it. She didn’t doubt he was looking at them all as suspects in their own assaults. There had to be a reason why they’d all been attacked.

  During Tanner’s murder investigation, she’d seen how the cops worked. They separated witnesses to keep them from talking or comparing notes. Whenever they started this divide and conquer bullshit, someone was in trouble.

  Miranda never did anything to attract blame. Well, she had once, and in that instance Juliet had reaped the chaos in her sister’s place. This time neither of them had done a damn thing to deserve being attacked. She was certain of it.

  But if there were a way the cops could pin it on one of them, they’d do it. The bird in hand was always worth more than the two hiding in the brush.

  Detective Robinson urged her to take a seat on the bed while he pulled forward the chair Brian Underwood had
been sitting on half an hour before.

  He had a narrow face and short-cropped, blondish-brown hair. The shallow cleft in his chin gave his strong jaw an extra jolt of masculinity, and his brows, darker than his hair, emphasized how pale his eyes were. His gaze seemed to penetrate her outer shell and bore right into her.

  “Do you walk home after work often?” he asked.

  “Most nights.”

  “You know you’re borrowing trouble with that kind of behavior?”

  Juliet kept her face blank.

  “Do you walk past the place where Tanner was killed every night?”

  She swallowed, though her throat felt dry. “It’s on the way.”

  “You were only a block away from the spot when you and Samuel Newton were attacked.”

  “So?”

  “Why wouldn’t you get into the car with him?”

  “I didn’t know who he was, and once I did…I thought he might want to hurt me.”

  “Why?”

  “His parents blamed me for Tanner’s death.” She tentatively touched her throat. It ached every time she swallowed.

  “Why did he show up tonight?”

  Juliet reached for the plastic cup on the bedside table. Detective Robinson rose and quickly poured more water and ice from the plastic pitcher into the container. Beard stubble darkened the lower edge of his jaw. The powerful width of his shoulders blocked out the overhead light as he leaned forward and handed her the cup. She didn’t sense any aggression from him, and the momentary anxious tension in her muscles relaxed.

  She held a piece of ice in her mouth and let the cold water soothe the pain. When it eased she said, “He wanted to groom me to testify against Gerald Abbott at his brother’s murder trial. He didn’t think a bartender would project the proper image and wanted to ensure my testimony appeared credible.” She kept her tone flat and devoid of bitterness, though it remained in the background, eating away.

  Tanner had never treated her with anything but respect. He’d looked beyond the heavy makeup, the leather pants, boots, and bustier she wore at work, and had seen the normal woman beneath. With his boyish charm and wit, he’d whittled away at her shield and wormed his way into her affections.

  She’d cared for him, had tried to love him. It had been her own fault she couldn’t. No matter how much he tried to convince her, she’d never felt worthy.

  “What did you say to Newton?”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Why?”

  “Just because I tend bar doesn’t mean I’m a slut. I don’t need him looking down his nose at me or treating me like I’m something he needs to scrape off the bottom of his shoe. He doesn’t know anything about me.”

  “But you’ve been in trouble before.”

  “Not since high school.”

  “You were present when a man was beaten to death, and now his brother is injured.”

  There was the look she’d been waiting for. The look that said you’re a fuckup, and everything is your fault. She’d seen it at home from her mother and stepfather. Even while the bastard was slipping into her room at night to touch her, fuck her, when she was thirteen.

  She’d seen it at school every time she’d visited the principal’s and counselor’s offices. She’d even seen it while she lay beaten and bloody on the bathroom floor at Superstition High.

  She’d read it in Principal Underwood’s face while EMS loaded her on a gurney. Maybe she’d learn a lesson from having her nose broken, her ribs cracked, a concussion. Having shoe prints mark her hip, her back, where Brian had kicked her.

  But Principal Underwood had learned a lesson, too, when she identified her attacker, and Brian’s bruised, busted knuckles and bloody football cleats had verified her story.

  Her parents had seen an opportunity and threatened a civil suit for damages.

  In return for the charges being dropped, Principal Underwood had been more than happy to pay to keep his son out of jail and clear the way for him to become what he was today. A bully with a badge.

  In those few minutes Brian had been in her hospital room, she’d seen he hadn’t changed. People rarely did.

  But she had. Gradually. Tanner had taught her to be more open, and thus more vulnerable. And now he was dead.

  Tanner’s death was her fault. And she’d been looking over her shoulder, waiting for the men who killed him to catch up to her.

  Now, instead of men, something else had taken their place.

  The silence stretched. Robinson continued to eye her, waiting for her reply. Despite the pain, Juliet dragged the hard shell she’d spent so many years perfecting around her and kept her features even, expressionless. She could wait all day if need be.

  “We have Abbott in custody, and Willy Porter is dead.”

  Though Samuel Newton had said so, Juliet had been skeptical. Robinson’s confirmation lifted a weight from her, but the small feeling only lasted a moment. “How was Porter killed?”

  “We’re not certain yet. He was found in an alley a few blocks from where Abbott was staying.”

  “I’ve been waiting for them to come after me.”

  “Then why did you continue to walk home at night?”

  Because she’d hoped they would come back and she could exact just a little revenge for what they’d done. Though she was completely capable of dealing with them through other means, she’d bought the gun. Shooting someone was permissible. Burning them to a crisp wasn’t.

  If the police decided she was guilty of something, they’d search her bag and find the gun.

  “This is my life. If I gave up, they won,” she finally said when it looked as though they were heading for another standoff.

  “Abbott said you set Willy Porter’s clothes on fire.”

  She’d expected, if they took Abbott alive, that he might say something about the fire. She felt no remorse at all about lying. “I doused his pants with perfume and set them alight. It was the only weapon I had. It got them off of Tanner.”

  Robinson finally asked, “Is there anyone you can think of who would want to hurt you and your sister?”

  “Only the men who killed Tanner. And Mr. and Mrs. Newton.”

  “In the weeks before Tanner Newton’s death, did you notice anyone following you, or taking a deeper interest in you than before?”

  “No. Tanner was there most nights. We often walked to my apartment after work. I never noticed anyone following us until that night.”

  “Did he mention anyone he might have had a run-in with or had any kind of argument with?”

  “No, but his brother might be able to tell you more once he wakes up.”

  “Did you notice anyone following you tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Describe the attack for me one more time.”

  Her voice had hoarsened to a whisper. “We were walking east on Stoker, and paused on the corner of Stoker and Seventeenth. I was walking backwards, getting ready to leave Samuel Newton. He looked past me and I knew someone was behind me.

  “Something in his face made me turn to look behind me, and suddenly something gray was over my face, in my mouth. Someone gripped my throat and squeezed. He had to be strong, because he lifted me up off my feet. I dropped my bag on the sidewalk. I was scared he was going to choke me to death, and I started trying to kick him. Then I felt like he might snap my neck, but he kept on squeezing until I started to lose consciousness.

  “Something hit me from behind. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but it had to have been Samuel. I fell to the sidewalk and hit my cheek.” She touched the scrape, still swollen and sore on her cheekbone.

  “When I came to, I thought for a moment I’d been having a nightmare.” Once again she was flooded with the panicked fear she felt facing the creature inside the circle of light. She’d never forget the rage and hatred in its scream.

  “Samuel was unconscious on the sidewalk a few feet away. I went to him.” She swallowed as emotion and tears threatened to overwhelm her. �
��He was still alive, but unconscious. I took his cell phone from his pocket and dialed nine-one-one.”

  He closed his small notepad and rose to stand over her for a moment. He surprised her when he placed his large hand on her shoulder, the pressure of his fingers light. “Rest your throat. I’ll get back to you in a few days.”

  The tension eased and she relaxed against her pillow.

  He’d made it to the door, then turned back. “You never saw your attacker clearly?”

  The image was burned into her brain. “No. Just something gray.”

  * * *

  Miranda was lying there, still, awake, her mind too plagued by all she’d experienced to sleep. The nurse’s footsteps sounded muffled as she passed, but the squeak of wheels needing to be oiled carried through the door. Why didn’t the nurse just spray them with a little W-D 40 so she could sleep?

  Now Caleb was asleep in the chair next to her bed, she could allow herself to look at him. Really look at him.

  His thick, dark hair needed a trim. It curled along the back of his neck and around his ears in a show of abandon that sharply contrasted with the rest of him. A five o’clock shadow darkened his chin and jaw and lent his features a dangerous masculinity she found hard to resist.

  Her attention rested on his well-shaped mouth, and for a moment she relived their brief kiss. He’d kissed her before. Quick brushes against her cheek, forehead, and even her mouth, but nothing like the kiss they’d shared tonight. The instant sensual buzz she’d gotten from the brief contact amped up while she ran her eyes down his long, rangy body slumped, muscular and strong, in the reclining chair. His thigh muscles seemed to test the strength of his jeans’ seams, and his forearms and biceps, toned and conditioned in the Marines and from a mechanic’s hard, manual labor, bulged. His hands were rough from that same labor, but that didn’t bother her.

  She’d tried to convince him to go home and get some sleep, but he refused to leave her—leave them. She’d always known he had a stubborn streak a mile wide. He was laid back and content to go along as long as it suited him, but once he’d reached his limit—she might as well have been singing to a wall for all the notice he’d given her suggestions. The air of quiet command when he refused had stopped her in her tracks.