Depth Perception (12 page)

Her vision tunneled on her son. so tiny and pale and bleeding out right before her eyes. The pool of blood seemed to cover half of the floor. In a distant comer of her mind she wondered how such a little body could bleed so much . . .

"Kyle.”

Then she was rushing to her child, her breaths bursting from her throat in ragged gasps. In her peripheral vision she saw Ward sprawled near the cooking island. Another wave of horror exploded in her brain when she saw that his pajamas were covered with blood.

"Ward! Ohmigod! Ohmigod!"

She dropped to her knees beside her son's prone form, her brain stumbling through basic first aid, knowing deep inside that it was already too late. "Kyle! Oh, baby, talk to mommy!"

She heard movement behind her: A brutal punch of terror took her breath when she realized whomever had done this was still in the house. Nat didn't know how she got to her feet, but the next thing she knew she was standing, shaking, dizzy with horror: She could hear herself breathing hard. The razor edge of panic cutting her: Her pulse roaring like a tornado in her ears. Every beat of her heart was like a fist pounding her chest.

The intruder moved toward her. She saw dark clothes. A ski mask. Light from the window flittered like blue ice on something in his hand, and she realized he had a knife. He's going to kill me, she thought and the terror of that paralyzed her.

"Bitch," he snarled and lunged.

Nat snapped out of her stupor just as the blade came down. Screaming, she raised her arms to protect herself. But at the last instant he changed tactics and went in low, slashing from left to right. She tried to get out of the way, but wasn't fast enough and the blade sliced across her belly. An animal sound tore from her throat as the shock of pain registered. The sensation of heat just below her ribs. The realization that he'd cut her.

Reeling backward, she crashed against the counter. "Get away from me!"

The knife went up. Nat reached behind her, grabbed the coffeemaker, dragged it across the counter and flung it at him. The carafe flew from its nest and hit the stove. Glass shattered. The coffeemaker clattered to the floor.

She lunged toward the phone on the built-in desk. but he beat her to it and ripped the cord from the wall. Remembering her cell phone recharging on the counter, she bolted past him. He tried to grab her, she felt the scrape of his fingertips on her arm, heard her robe tear as he snagged the fabric, but she broke free and raced to the counter.

Shock punched her at the sight of Ward's revolver. She pounced on the gun. The wood grip was cold and rough against her palm. She brought it up as she swung it around, leveled it at the figure standing in the doorway.

Choking out animal sounds, she pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. But the only sound that met her was the hollow click of the hammer against the firing pin.

"No!" She hurled the pistol at him and darted toward the cell phone. Before she'd gone two steps, vise-like fingers closed around her right biceps, jerked her around to face him. The knife arced, the blade glinting blue. White-hot pain flashed from her left breast to her navel.

The knowledge that she' d been cut shocked and horrified. She felt the warmth of blood on her tee shirt. The material clinging wetly to her. The metallic stench filling her nostrils.

Oh, dear God, he's going to hack me to death . . .

She tried to fight, but for the first time in her life she was paralyzed with fear. The knife came down again, and she felt the numbing pain of a razor slash on her belly. She tried to use her knee, but her bare foot slipped in her own blood, and then she was falling ....

Nat screamed in horror and rage as she went down. She couldn't believe this was happening. Violent crime didn't happen in Bellerose ....

Then she was on her hands and knees, crawling away from her attacker. Whimpering like a beaten dog, she made it to the cooking island and used the cabinet door to pull herself to her feet. She looked around, expecting him to rush her at any moment.  But the kitchen was empty and silent.

"Oh, God. Oh, God!" Choking back sobs, Nat stumbled to the phone and punched 911.

Taking the phone with her; she dropped to her knees at her son's side, Touched his shoulder. "Kyle," she whispered. "Oh, baby. Mama's here. I'm here.” Gently, she turned her son onto his back. "Please, God, oh, please let him be all right ...."

Kyle's eyes were open, and for a moment Nat expected him to look up at her and smile the way he'd done a thousand times before. But when she pressed her fingers to the carotid artery, there was no pulse.

She heard a voice on the other end of the phone.

And then Nat Jennings began to scream.

Nat woke to her own scream. It was a terrible sound in the silence of the house. She found herself standing in total darkness, sobbing and breathless, her body slicked with sweat. She was cold to the bone and trembling violently. She could still feel the tight grip of terror. The ache of grief that never seemed to leave her.

"Just a dream," she whispered.

Pressing her hand against her wildly pounding heart, she stumbled in the darkness, bumped into a wall, found a light switch, flipped it on. She blinked, momentarily blinded. She was standing in the dining room. The quilt she'd dragged from the sofa lay in a heap at her feet. A magic marker was clutched in her left hand. She stared at it, dread whipping through her.

Then she slowly raised her eyes to the wall.

Monster has Ricky. wood house.

A sob escaped her as she stumbled back. The marker clattered to the floor. Nat stared. at the words, wanting desperately to believe she hadn't written them. But she knew there was no one else in the house.

Monster has Ricky. wood house.

The childlike scrawl was stark and black against the white paint. She didn't know who Ricky was, but she knew he was in danger. She knew the killer had him . . .

Blinking back tears, she glanced at the clock on the stove to see that it was not yet four A.M. The dead of night, she thought and suddenly felt very alone and very much afraid.

"I'm going to stop you," she whispered, trying hard to ignore the little voice in her head telling her she couldn't, that she wasn't strong enough, that no one would believe her. And for the first time since leaving the hospital, she thought about giving up. She could go to New Orleans and let her mother take care of her. She could leave this town and the horrors of that hellish night behind and never look back.

But Nat knew there was a killer out there. She knew he was going to kill again. There was no way she could turn her back. Or let the son of a bitch get away with what he'd done.

Pulling out a dining room chair, she collapsed into it and put her face in her hands. She would get through this. She'd gotten through other tough nights.

"You're going to be okay," she whispered.

Raising her head, she looked at the words scrawled on the wall.

Monster has Ricky. wood house.

It wasn't the first time she'd sleepwalked, but the experience never ceased to frighten her. Waking to a nightmare was bad enough. Waking to find that you'd written a message from the dead was infinitely more terrifying.

Rising, she rose and scooped the quilt from the floor and carried it to the sofa. The pillow she'd been using was on the floor, so she picked it up and sank: onto the sofa, curling her legs beneath her.

Nat nearly jumped out of her skin when the doorbell rang. Alarmed, she crossed to the foyer and checked the peephole. Surprise flashed at the sight of Nick Bastille standing on her porch.

Stepping away from the door, she pressed her hand to her stomach, her mind racing. What was he doing on her porch at four o'clock in the morning? Had the anger she'd seen earlier in the day reached its flash point, and he'd come to take it out on her?

But in some small comer of her mind it registered that he didn't look angry or out of control or even particularly dangerous at the moment. And on some elemental level. she knew why he'd come to her in the middle of the night. She knew he wanted information about his son. And she knew she was going to open the door and let him in, despite the alarms blaring in her head.

Quickly, she wiped the tears from her cheeks, then glanced down at the faded denim shirt and boxer shorts she wore. The ensemble looked like hell, but it was decent enough to answer the door, considering the hour. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she opened the door. His gaze met hers with an intensity that unnerved her immediately. "I was driving by and saw the light."

She didn't believe him, but she didn't close the door. “What do you want?"

"You told me there's a witness who knows what happened to my boy. You can't drop a bomb like that and expect me to stay away."

She studied him, trying to gauge his frame of mind, but his expression was impossible to read as he stared back at her with shuttered eyes. "Come in."

He stepped into the foyer, and for the first time she noticed his appearance. A day's growth of whiskers darkened his jaw. His hair was mussed with a small twig tangled at the crown. He was wearing the same clothes from the night before. A white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and button-down jeans faded nearly white. Only now his clothes were rumpled and dirty. The shirt was tom at the sleeve and smeared with dirt. He looked haggard and wounded and tired to his bones.

An involuntary shudder moved through her when his eyes swept down the front of her. She felt his gaze like the caress of his fingertip against her skin. Suddenly painfully self-conscious, she folded her arms and stepped back. "You look like you've had a rough night."

"Looks like maybe I'm not the only one."

Nat could only imagine how she looked. Her face was blotchy from crying. Her hair was tangled and damp with sweat. The shirt was wrinkled. She told herself she didn't care. But even through the grief and turmoil of the last years, a tiny sliver of female vanity had survived.

"Did you get into a fight?" she asked, wondering if Hunt Ratcliffe had been waiting for him after he'd closed the bar.

"I was out with the search party."

"Search party?" The hairs at her nape prickled. "Who's missing?" she asked, but in some small comer of her mind, she already knew.

"Eight-year-old by the name of Ricky Arnaud. He disappeared while walking from his friend's farm back to his parents' place."

Ricky.

The name struck her like a punch, confirming her worst fear. Another child. Oh, dear God, no . . . Nausea climbed into her throat. Closing her eyes, Nat recalled Kyle's warning at the gas station the day before.

bad man take ricky. kill again. hurry

The knowledge that she may have been able to prevent this was a crushing weight on her shoulders. Sick with fear for a child she'd never met, she pressed her hand to her stomach. She didn't even realize she'd stumbled back until her back met the wall. The impact snapped her back. When she opened her eyes, Nick was standing a couple of feet away, looking at her as if expecting her to collapse at any moment.

"Are you all right?"

Embarrassed, she nodded, but she was trembling inside. "Did you find the boy?" she asked.

He grimaced. "No."

She closed her eyes against the quick swipe of pain, terrified it was already too late for Ricky Arnaud.

"Maybe you ought to sit down," he said.

Because she didn't trust her voice, Nat turned away and started toward the kitchen. "I should have done something," she said. "I knew this could happen."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

“The boy," she snapped. "I should have found a way to stop it."

"Wait a minute. Are you telling me you know something about that missing boy?"

She heard him moving behind her, but she didn't stop. She was midway through the living room when the sight of the words written on the dining room wall stopped her cold. She stared at the heavy black letters against the crisp white paint, wondering how to explain them, wondering if he would believe her even if she could find the words.

"What the hell?"

Nat turned at the tone of his voice. He was staring at the words, his expression taut with shock. "Jesus." His gaze snapped to hers. "What the hell is that?"

She'd rehearsed this moment a thousand times in the last six months. Times when she stood in front of the mirror in her room at River Oaks Convalescent Home in Baton Rouge and explained to an open-minded and sympathetic Nick Bastille that since waking from a coma she had certain capabilities she hadn't had when she'd taken that jagged piece of tile to her wrists. But the man standing before her looked about as sympathetic as a gator right before it chomped down on an unsuspecting nutria.

"I was ... sleepwalking. I wrote that just before you arrived."

"Sleepwalking?" His gaze flicked from the writing on the wall to her. "Why did you ask me the boy's name when, evidently, you already knew it? What the hell kind of twisted bullshit is this?"

"Nick, I didn't know his name. I swear."

"If you didn't know his name, how could you have written it on the wall?"

"I didn't write that," she stammered.

''You just told me you did."

"Yes, I wrote the words. Physically, I mean. But the message came from ... somewhere else. From someone who's trying to help me." God, that sounded insane.

 Incredulity filled his expression when his gaze shifted from the wall to her. "Look, I don't know what the hell's going on-"

"Sit down." She pulled out a chair, then rounded the dining room table and sank into the one across from it. "Please. We need to talk."

After an interminable moment, Nick took the chair. "Lady, my tolerance for bullshit is pretty low right now, so why don't you just tell me about that goddamn witness?"