Because I'm Watching (24 page)

That night he thoroughly kissed her, but he didn't press for sex.

Thursday it rained again and it was her night on call, and she worked a fatal head-on collision. She was on the scene with ambulances and a cleanup crew until after ten, but she talked to Luis all the way home.

Friday evening he drove her and Rainbow to the resort, where they enjoyed a family dinner with Margaret and her granddaughter Patricia, Garik and Elizabeth, and their daughter. That night Luis wanted to come in and finish what they had started, and Kateri was tempted. So tempted. But she thought about the nosy neighbors, her race for sheriff, and the recent end of his relationship with Sienna, and she regretfully refused. He pointed out everyone in town knew they were dating. She agreed that was true. He said that if she kept holding him off, his reputation as a stud would suffer. She laughed, kissed him good night, and sent him on his way.

On Saturday, he called in the morning and chatted, suggested a few things they could do that evening, seemed perfectly at ease …

He never showed up. Kateri got angry, called Rainbow and complained that all he'd wanted from her was sex.

Rainbow was not sympathetic to Kateri's grievance.

On Sunday, he didn't call or appear. Kateri started to worry, but reasoned that if he'd been hurt, she was the sheriff and would be the first to know.

Monday she overslept; despite her own logic, all night she had been worried and wakeful. She walked into city hall and through an unusually silent and watchful patrol room and idly wondered if Bergen had called another press conference.

Mona was at her desk outside Kateri's office, and she had that expression on her face, the kind that meant she was about to explode with nasty gossip.

Kateri knew better than to try to hold her off. So she stopped by Mona's desk and waited.

Mona said nothing except a nervous, “Hi, Sheriff, hope you had a
real
good weekend.”

“Yes. Thanks. It was fine.”

“Good! Yep. Good. I'll have last week's reports typed up and sent to you before the morning is much older!”

Huh. It was Monday morning, and Mona was working. That could not be good.

“Is there more ugly news about the sheriff's race?” Kateri asked.

“Gosh no, Sheriff. In fact, I know Mrs. Bergen is mad because Deputy Bergen hired Mr. Caldwell. She doesn't like the old f … guy.”

Fascinating. “But Mr. Caldwell seems to be effective.”

“That's for sure. The deputy is miles ahead of you in the polls.” Mona snapped her mouth shut as if even
she
had realized she'd been tactless.

Mona being worried about whether she hurt Kateri's feelings.
Definitely
not good.

Kateri walked into her office. At once her gaze fell on a brown envelope wrapped with a shiny blue ribbon tied in a bow. It had been meticulously propped against the photo of her with the men of her Coast Guard command. Picking up the envelope, she noted her name was written in calligraphy with sparkly blue ink.

The envelope, the ribbon, the calligraphy—to Kateri, they all said
Sienna
.

Kateri was pretty sure her week had taken a turn for the worse.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Someone was in the room with her.

In the middle of the night, Maddie woke and came to her feet. Her chair clattered and fell. Her heart raced and pounded. She spun in a circle, looking, seeking.

Nothing. The room was empty. No caped figure stalked her. No narrow eyes glinted in crazed pleasure. She was alone in her house.

She glanced at the clock. It was 1:15
A.M.
She had been asleep two hours. More, maybe. Her butt hurt from sitting in that hard metal chair. Her arms had rested on the desk, her head cradled between them, and her shoulders ached from the awkward position. But she
was
alone. The trail of fingers across the nape of her neck was nothing but a terrifying dream.

Wait. At her dining room table. Who had turned that chair to face her? She hadn't done it. She knew she hadn't done it.

But maybe she had. She already knew that when she wrote, she was distracted. So maybe … maybe. Yes. She must have done it.

She stood and stretched. And saw a small piece of paper on the floor by the chair.

Reluctantly, she approached it. It looked like her drawing paper. Perhaps it had sailed off her desk and traveled on a wind current … although, of course, all the windows were shut and locked.

She picked it up, turned it over, and saw a sketch in pen and ink with a dark, menacing figure in a cape and hat.

But she had not drawn this. The style was primitive, the face had been painted with peach watercolor. And the eyes. Oh, God, the eyes. They glowed a sick, bright red.

With painful deliberation, she placed the paper on the dining table.

He
had been in her house while she slept.
He
had been watching her.
He
had seen the monster she drew and he knew now she could identify him.

She sat down at the table and put her head in her hands. Why was he doing this? He could have killed her while she slept. Instead he cruelly tormented her. For what purpose? Why did he wish her to live in constant debilitating fear?

She wanted to call the police, to tell them, show them her evidence. But then everyone would know what her monster looked like, and she would be even more vulnerable.

She needed more sleep.

She couldn't have sleep.

So she needed to eat. Standing, she went to the refrigerator and pulled out a beribboned box from Sienna's Sandwiches. She had bought it earlier today. Right now, she wasn't hungry, but she knew a cookie waited inside; her favorite, apricot nut oatmeal.

She deserved that cookie.

Setting the box on the counter, she slowly untied the shimmering blue ribbon at the top. She loved doing that; she loved the ritual involved, knowing when she opened the box, she would see the careful arrangement of sandwich, salad, and cookie. She eased the tabs apart, pulled back the flaps, and exposed the …

Maggots.

Hundreds of white maggots writhing on the bread, the cookie. The top had popped off the salad, and maggots used the macaroni like an amusement park, crawling in and out and …

Maddie screamed. She
screamed.
She swept the box off the counter and screamed. Never taking her eyes off the maggots, she ran backward, bumped into the edge of the table, bruised her hip. Hit one of the chairs and knocked it over. Still staring, whimpering now, she wiped at herself.

Had she touched them? Did she have any maggots on her?

Turning, she ran into the bathroom and washed her arms to the elbow. She soaped again and again, trying to get the sensation of white, crawly things off her skin. Then she dried, scrubbing herself with the towel, tossing it into the garbage, and using another towel.

Going to the phone, she dialed 911.

The dispatcher said, as she always did, “Please state the nature of your emergency.”

“Maggots. Maggots on my sandwich. And the chair turned wrong. And a sketch—someone was in my house!”

In a weary, patient voice, the dispatcher said, “So you're reporting an intruder, Madeline Hewitson? Again?”

“Yes. Yes!” Maddie could not take her gaze away from the spilled contents of the box. “Maggots. The chair. The sketch. He was here!”

“Would you like me to send out a law officer?”

“Yes. Yes! Why else would I be calling?”

“It will be a few minutes. Please don't disturb the crime scene.”

“I'm not touching those maggots,” Maddie fervently assured her.

“The officer should be there soon.”

“Thank you.” A knock on the door. “There he is now.” She hoped. She dropped the phone, looked out the peephole.

Jacob. In the circle of her porch light, Jacob stood clad in cutoff khaki shorts and a stained and wrinkled T-shirt. He was staring at the peephole and he mouthed,
What's wrong?

She yanked open the door. “How did you know to come?”

He was barefoot. “You screamed.” He narrowed his eyes. “Louder than normal.”

“Right. Thank you for coming.” She pointed a shaking finger toward the kitchen. “They're in there.”

“What's in there?”

“Maggots. Please take them away. I can't stand the thought of them crawling all over my kitchen.”

Jacob went over to the spill. “Ew. How long have you had that sandwich?”

“I bought it today!”

“You must have had it longer than that. This is from Sienna's, right? The place you buy your sandwiches?”

“Yes.” Her voice was squeaking.

“This food is rotten.”

He wasn't going to believe her. No matter what she said, no matter if she dug out her receipt and showed him, he wouldn't believe her. “Get. Rid. Of it.”

He got a handful of paper towels to protect his hands, scooped up the contents—the bread, the meat, the cookie, the salad—and placed it back in the box.

Maddie shuddered and shuddered, and wiped at tears that leaked from her eyes.

“Where's your garbage can?” Jacob asked.

“Out back. But I called the police. Shouldn't you save that as evidence?”

The wail of a siren. Another knock at the door.

Jacob paused, the box held in his hands. “Ask the cop.”

She looked through the peephole at Officer Moen of the bright red hair and the raging ambitions. Opening the door, she pointed at Jacob. “
He
came. He helped me. Do you want us to save the maggots as evidence?”

Moen lost color, taking his complexion from pale to pasty white. “Maggots? Ew. No one said maggots. No, I don't want them!”

“I've seen worse. Hell, I've eaten worse.” Jacob headed out the back door.

“Miss Hewitson, do you want me to come in? Protect you?” Moen asked.

“From who?”

“From, um, him. He's”—Moen lowered his voice—“a little crazy.”

She remembered all too well what had happened the last time Moen was in her house. “No. No, thank you. I'm fine.”

“Miss Hewitson, I don't know what the police department can do about these incidents, but I will continue to park close and hopefully that will make you feel safer.”

Please, no.
“That's not necessary. I know you have other duties.”

“It's okay. I have to go somewhere on my lunch hour. Anytime you feel threatened, come out and wave at me and I'll be here ASAP.”

“Sure. Thank you.” She shut the door in his face. She peeked out the window and watched until Officer Moen pulled away. But he wouldn't go far, she knew. Not far enough.

Jacob came back, wiping at his hands. “Anything else?”

She pointed again. “That chair was not where I put it. There is a sketch I didn't draw.”

“Maggots, chair, and sketch. Check.”

She felt hostile. Scared. “You can doubt me all you want about the chair and the sketch, but those were maggots! In the large scheme of things, maybe they aren't so bad.
They
can't kill me.” She stopped, swallowed, whispered, “Only when I'm dead of a slashed throat will they visit again.”

With heavy mockery, Jacob asked, “Aren't you dramatic?”

How dare he? The guy—this man Moen labeled as “a little crazy”—was ridiculing her. “You were the last man I expected would make fun of me.” Her voice broke. Then she fell apart, sobbing into her hands until she had to rush for the tissues on her desk. Handfuls of tissues, and never enough. She didn't see Jacob pacing toward her—how could she, with her eyes shut tightly against the tears?—but when he tried to wrap her in his arms, she shoved at him. “No!”

He paid no attention, pulling her gently against his chest and murmuring, “I'm sorry. I'm a jerk. Maggots are gross.”

“They … they … they … eat dead people!” She tried not to think of her friends, sliced open by a maniac, of Easton, throat cut, bleeding, dying … and all of them locked in an eternal embrace with squirming death.

But how could she not think of them? Every day, she worked at her desk and saw that blood spatter. Every day, something stalked her, and for all her sorrow, she did not want to join her friends in their graves. She mourned Easton, but she wanted to live her life, enjoy the sunshine, and never fear the night. She sobbed harder, slurred her words, rained tears on Jacob's wrinkled T-shirt. “I want … I want to be normal. I can … can … can be normal!”

“Shhh.”

“Live … live like everyone else.”

“You can do it.”

She yelled into his chest. “Yes! I can! Just … let me. Someone … let me!” Her own sobbing choked her. She couldn't breathe. Her knees collapsed.

He caught her, picked her up, carried her into the bedroom illuminated only by the light from the living room. He stood her on her feet and threw back the covers. “You need to sleep.”

That piece of inanity stopped the tears, restored her breath. “You … idiot. I can't sleep! He's been … in my house. I don't know what … what else he has done to … me!”

Jacob wavered under the weight of his decision. “Fine. I'll stay with you.” He collapsed onto the sheets, taking her with him.

“I don't want you,” she said petulantly.

“I don't want to be here.”

She couldn't stand to be alone. “Promise you won't leave.”

“I'll be here when you wake up.”

“I won't go to sleep.”

“Neither will I.”

They lay together, both staring at the ceiling in miserable silence, waiting for the morning.

 

They slept together. No sex. I figured he had no balls.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Jacob opened his eyes to a sunny room with yellow walls. An antique dresser with a pale blue silk dressing stool. A silver hairbrush. A collection of glass perfume bottles.