Her Darkest Nightmare (7 page)

“There you go,” he coaxed when her hand guided him deeper. “You can trust me. I won't hurt you, Evelyn.”

Tears filled her eyes. She wasn't sure why, because he didn't frighten her; he turned her on. She was breaking through some sort of barrier that'd kept her from the real world. At last, she was back, experiencing everything she'd been missing for twenty years.

“That's … good,” she breathed. “No, that's
great
.”

The pleasure intensified when he lifted her shirt. “No kidding,” he murmured, circling the tip of one breast with his tongue. “You're doing fine. You taste like heaven. And you feel even better.”

When he removed her clothes, she wasn't even tempted to resist. She didn't mind when he carried her to the bed, either. He acted as if there were no more decisions to make, no room for reason or fear. And strangely enough, she believed him. His mouth, his hands, were everywhere, suckling, touching, arousing.

“You're too young for me,” she said, repeating the thought that was floating out there, somewhere in her mind.

Laughing softly, he used an additional finger. “I'm old enough to give you what you want.”

Makita whined every so often. He seemed interested in what was going on. She even felt his wet nose brush her leg once when he got up to investigate. But having the dog as a witness didn't bother Evelyn. She doubted he could see much more than she could, which was nothing. He had to be able to smell them, though. The scent of sex, heady and ripe, seemed to be everywhere. On her. On Amarok. On the bedding.

Sex
was
messy, she thought, gloriously messy. But she didn't care about that, either. Maybe Trooper Murphy was seven years younger, and maybe they had nothing in common, but this was an accomplishment, a release, one of the best moments of her life. And it was happening in remote Alaska, in the place she'd cursed almost every day since coming here.

Amarok didn't seem to notice that his dog had followed them into the room. He was too focused on her, too determined to bring her to climax. This was nothing like what she'd experienced with Jasper—even before the violence, when they were first experimenting. It hadn't been
bad
back then, but there'd been more fumbling than pleasure. Now that she understood how lonely life could be going solo all the time, how close she'd come to shutting off her own sexuality, she valued the sensations pouring through her that much more.

“I'm shaking,” she whispered.

“I've noticed,” he said.

“But it's a crazy good kind of shaking.”

“I can tell.” He fed off her excitement, and she fed off his.

“Take me now.” If they joined quickly, she'd have less chance of building up any resistance to the idea, less chance of backing out. She wanted to make sure it didn't boil down to that.

He let her strip away the snow pants he'd donned to go outside and removed his own shirt.

The first time his bare chest touched hers, she got butterflies. But then his erection pressed against her stomach and she experienced something else, something akin to fear. She was sure it would ruin everything, but after he put on a condom he didn't roll her beneath him as she expected. He let go of her and shifted onto his back. “I'm ready when you are,” he said.

He expected
her
to take charge? Could she do it? Could she go through with it?

Her heart threatened to pound right out of her chest as she straddled him. She could feel his hands gripping her thighs, guiding her, encouraging her. But when his hard shaft brushed her bottom she froze.

“You're almost there,” he said. “You've got this.”

He didn't act as if he'd press her if she didn't want to continue. That helped. He was being careful to make sure she retained some power in this exchange, some control.

“I want you,” she whispered. That was true in spite of the fear, in spite of her sudden resistance.

“Then you know what to do,” he said. “Or you can wait. It's your choice. There's no rush.”

Did he really think they'd have another opportunity? She had no faith in that. She had to finish this tonight, while she was out of her element. She was
so
close.

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't make herself take him inside her. A sudden rush of panic paralyzed her as quickly as a shot of succinylcholine chloride.

“Amarok?” she choked out his name as if he could help her, but she wasn't sure what he could do. Encouraging her would only make things worse. She was already breaking into a cold sweat, felt as if she were somehow outside of her body watching the previous excitement unravel in the most disappointing and humiliating way.

“It's okay,” he whispered. “It doesn't have to happen now.”

She'd failed. She'd wanted it so badly, but the memories were too much for her. Even if she wasn't thinking of Jasper consciously, even if she was doing everything possible to convince herself there was no connection between what had happened so long ago and what was happening now, there was resistance on such a base level she couldn't overcome it.

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she climbed off him. She wanted to head back to her room, where she could recover alone, but he caught her hand.

“Stay.”

“I'm sorry. I knew this could happen—”

“And you warned me. It's fine. We'll sleep. Come here.” He coaxed her into lying down. Then he pulled her up against him. “You're okay.” He spoke in measured tones, as if he was talking her down off a cliff or handling a spooked animal. She was embarrassed, but the gentleness of his voice and the security of his embrace helped.

Eventually, the panic ebbed and she could breathe normally again. She wanted to thank him for his understanding and patience. This had to have been the worst sexual experience of his life. She hated being responsible for it. But by the time she could speak without breaking into tears, which she definitely didn't want, he was asleep.

*   *   *

“Sergeant, you there? Sergeant? Please copy. We got a problem here.”

Amarok's radio woke them early the next morning. Although they hadn't had intercourse, they were lying tangled in each other and the sheets, with Makita at the foot of the bed, keeping their feet warm.

“Don't tell me it's morning,” Amarok mumbled.

Evelyn was just groggy enough not to mind that they were both naked. “Without a clock, how would I know?” It wasn't as if they could judge by the sun creeping around the blinds. This time of year, Hilltop received only about five hours of daylight.

“It
can't
be morning. I just closed my eyes.” He curled around her as if he'd doze off regardless, but the radio crackled again.

“Hey.” She jiggled his arm, which lay across her middle. “I think someone's trying to reach you.”

“Right. I know that.” He stretched as he grew more coherent. “What's the storm doing?”

She lifted her head to listen. “I'm guessing it's over. I don't hear anything—”

“Sergeant? Do you copy?”

“—except your radio.”

“Shit,” he said, and yawned.

“Sergeant, it's Shorty. Come back.”

She leaned up on her elbows. Shorty owned the Moosehead. He was also a Public Safety Officer, during the summer. “You planning to answer?”

He shoved his head under a pillow. “Haven't decided yet.”

The pillow muffled his words, but she picked up most of them. “He sounds desperate.”

“Yeah. That's why I'm hesitant,” he said, but he tossed the pillow aside and got up.

Once he managed to extract himself from the bed, he didn't stop to dress. He strode into the living room, where she heard him respond. “This is Sergeant Amarok. What's up?”

“Um … not sure, Sergeant. But … I think you'd better get down here.”

The emergency in Shorty's voice caused Evelyn to sit up.

“Where's here?” Amarok asked.

“The Moosehead.”

“What's wrong? Has the snow caved in the roof?”

Evelyn thought that was a good guess, but Shorty denied it.

“No, sir.”

“Then what? Spit it out. I'm not in the mood for games.”

“This is no game, Sergeant. We found something. I'd tell you what if I could. But … I'm afraid to guess. Just come, okay? Come quick.”

When Amarok returned to the bedroom he no longer seemed sleepy. He flipped on the light and dressed with an economy of movement that belied his earlier exhaustion.

“What's going on?” Suddenly self-conscious, Evelyn pulled the blankets up to her neck.

“I have no idea. But they'd better not be hauling my ass out in the cold to look at a giant icicle.”

“Do you think it could be that innocuous?” Knowing she had 250 of the most dangerous men in America housed not far away, she couldn't help but feel a trickle of anxiety, especially after her odd session with Hugo. Surely nothing had gone wrong at Hanover House.

Shorty had mentioned finding “something” at the Moosehead. That meant this had nothing to do with her.

She hoped.

Amarok nudged his dog out of the way and sat on the bed to put on his boots. “No. But whatever it is, I'll take care of it. Get some rest.”

“You'll let me know what's happened, though, won't you?”

“I'll check in as soon as I can.”

“Okay.” She put some lift in her voice for his benefit. But she couldn't go back to sleep. As soon as he left, she yanked on the sweats he'd given her and tried to use the phone. She wanted to see if everything was okay at the prison. But there was no service. The storm had probably knocked over a pole, just as she'd feared it would.

Glad she had self-replenishing food and water dishes for her cat, since she hadn't been able to make it home, she paced the living room. She assumed the sergeant would return sooner rather than later, but one minute ticked away after another. An hour passed, then an hour and a half.

Evelyn showered, dressed in her suit since it was all she had, and made eggs and coffee—only to sit and watch the clock for another hour after she did the dishes.

“Where the hell is he?” she grumbled. “It's almost noon.”

Makita got up and came to her as if she'd been talking to him. “It's okay, boy. He'll be back,” she said, but she was growing so damn anxious. What could be keeping him? Had he forgotten she was stranded at his place without a vehicle?

For the first time since Lorraine had been in her office yesterday, Evelyn thought of Danielle Connelly. The new girl was safe, wasn't she? Lorraine would've called if not—providing the phones had been working when she went by.

Taking a deep breath, Evelyn crossed to the front door and peeked out at a white world. Snow was still falling, but gently. She was considering pulling on some gear, taking one of Amarok's flashlights and trying to walk to the trooper post or the Moosehead when she saw the glint of a single headlight and heard the whine of a snowmobile coming down the street. He was home. It had to be him; his closest neighbor lived half a mile away.

“Took you long enough,” she grumbled while he parked. As cold as it was, she waited on the stoop, the door closed behind her so she wouldn't let all the heat out of his house.

“What is it?” she called as he waded through the snow covering the walk.

He didn't answer. That bothered her.

“
What is it?
” she asked, louder. He looked even better to her now than he had yesterday, but she hated to acknowledge that. She was too humiliated by their aborted attempt to make love.

When he reached her, he opened the door and waved her back through it. “Come on inside.”

“Amarok?”

He seemed hard, aloof. The man he'd been before he'd held her through the night. They were back to being almost strangers.

“Is there any way one of the crazy bastards you've got over there at Hanover House could get out?” he asked after yanking off his hat.

You've
got. She heard the accusation in that statement but didn't respond to it. “No. Absolutely not. It's a maximum-security mental health facility.”

“Which means it houses a lot of dangerous men. You're sure there're no breaches in security? No chance anything could've … happened?”

Again she thought of Hugo.
You're not safe. None of us are.…
Could he have been right? Again? “Almost positive. Why?”

“You need to make sure everyone's accounted for.”

“Take me there and I will, but”–she wet her lips—“first tell me what's going on.”

He wiped his face with his sleeve. “Someone's been murdered.”

Evelyn's blood ran cold. She must've gone pale, too, because he insisted she sit down. “Who is—er—was it?”

“We don't know yet,” he said. “All we found was a woman's head. And it was beaten beyond recognition.”

 

5

We serial killers are your sons, we are your husbands, we are everywhere. And there will be more of your children dead tomorrow.

—TED BUNDY, SERIAL KILLER, RAPIST, KIDNAPPER AND NECROPHILIAC

The man in the bathroom stared down at his hands. He couldn't get the blood out from under his nails. He opened the medicine cabinet, looking for a toothbrush he could use to help with that, when a knock came at the front door.

“Hey!” a male voice called out. “Stan, it's Ian. Open up. I have some scary shit to tell you.”

His pulse doubled as he shut the medicine cabinet. What now? He preferred not to be seen in Stan's house. That was the whole reason he'd parked down the street and waded through the snow despite his hurry to get cleaned up.

Someone must've spotted the bathroom light even though he'd been careful to leave the rest of the house dark.…