My Kind Of Crazy (16 page)

“So you suspect that Henry Cooper is the man who killed your
father, burned down your barn, and kidnapped you? Over a tape?” I nod and feel
as if he’s mocking me. Why would he do that?

“Henry has only been here for a week and a half. He might
have burned down the barn and kidnapped you, but he was away on business when
your father was murdered.” My jaw clenches and I wonder why I didn’t think of
that in the first place. Of course,  he was away, Mrs. Hash said he had just
gotten back.

“I must have been mistaken.” I say apologetically, wringing
my hands in my lap. I’m debating on whether or not to tell him about what
happened to me when I was younger. But what’s the point now? I’m almost
positive it was Henry who kidnapped me, but there probably isn’t any physical
evidence to compare him with. Or is there? “Do you have any fibers from when I
was admitted into the hospital? Maybe you could just run a quick DNA test.” I
try hopefully.

“We do have a hair that was on your clothing. I could look
into it, Ana. But isn’t there a possibility that you might have been wrong? I
don’t understand why a man like Henry Cooper would risk his career and his
family’s reputation like this.” I want to point out to him that a lot of serial
killers have perfectly normal family lives and work lives. It’s when they are
away from their families and work that they become murderers.

“Just compare it and get back to me, please. Worst comes to
worst I’m wrong, and Henry endures a little bit of ridicule for a day. Do it
quietly and he won’t even have to endure that.” I stand abruptly from the chair
with some heat in my voice, and try to remind myself that Chief Robertson has
no idea what happened to me when I was fifteen. He wouldn’t understand why I’m
a little upset about the fact that he’s questioning my judgment. The fact is,
I’m
questioning my judgment.

“You had a drink at Mrs. Hash’s the other day, I was there,
Ana. Remember I said that?” I look down at the recorder still running, and he
grudgingly flicks it off.

“Yes, I had some champagne, but not enough to inebriate me.”
He looks me up and down suspiciously.

“You’re awfully short and thin, my guess is you weigh around
a hundred and ten pounds. Which means a few sips of champagne would render you
unable to drive legally. Sometimes the mind plays tricks on us.” Now he’s really
starting to make me doubt myself, which makes me even angrier.

“I see, Chief Robertson. I hope you have a wonderful rest of
your day.” Before he can stop me, I march out of the office and down the hall
with my shoulders squared and my back ramrod straight. Would he even believe me
if I told him about what happened to me at the hands of Henry Cooper six years
ago? Or would he just push that off as my wild imagination or inebriation?
Maybe he would even go as far as saying that it wasn’t rape, and I was just
construing it that way.

By the time I get to the waiting room, I’m fuming from head
to toe, and my footsteps show it. I march right out the front door without
waiting for Jonah, and slam my way into the rental car. He’s driving. There
won’t be any arguments on that point because I’m too angry to drive. But I have
an idea forming as he pulls his keys out of his pocket and slides in beside me.

“Take me to my father’s farmhouse.” I tell him over the
pounding of the rain. He doesn’t ask me why, and I assume that he understands.
The rest of the way we’re both silent as I try to rack my brain for where my
father might hide a tape.

As we pull up to the farmhouse, I realize that something is
off right away. It’s not the fact that the barn is missing, May’s barking is
gone, or the fact that my father is not waiting for me out front anymore. No,
it’s not even the lack of life outside of the home that makes my skin crawl.
What severely bothers me is the fact that there is a light on in what used to
be my bedroom. I put a hand on Jonah’s arm and point at the window wordlessly.

“Shit,” He mutters as he turns the car off quickly. I don’t
see anyone through the window, but we’re too close for me to be able to see
into the entire room. “Stay here, I’ll go check it out. Maybe we forgot to turn
off a light.” I feel my bladder starting to feel full and shake my head.

“You’re not leaving me here!” I squeak at him with my finger
digging into his arm. “What if whoever was in there is still in there and comes
out? What if they have a gun and shoot me? Please, don’t leave me in here
alone!” I’ve never felt so needy in my life, but Jonah gently pries off my
fingers from his arm and looks at me as if he’s looking into my soul.

“Fine, but you will stay right behind me. And if I tell you
to run, you run.” I nod in agreement, and we both get out of the car and close
the door very gently. Although I’m sure whoever is in there probably heard us
pull up. I can only hope that Jonah is strong enough to knock that person out,
or the person left through the back door.

I glance at the tree line to see if anyone is running
through them. My gut twists and my knees knock together as we get to the front
door. Then I straighten up, set my jaw, and thinking about the fact that this
person probably killed my father. The murderous rage building up almost has me
opening up the door myself, but I agreed to stay
behind
Jonah. So I do.

He holds his breath, and I count to three in my head as his
hand goes down to the doorknob, then he opens it up gently, and we both wince
at the creak. I really need to oil those hinges. I pull off my shoes so that I
can step lightly, but Jonah is like a predator moving through the shadows. We
head for the kitchen first, which is ransacked, to my horror.

Utensils litter the floor and dishes are broken on the
countertops and amidst the utensils. The fridge door is open, and the entire
thing has been toppled to the ground. Even the dish washer was pulled out from
the wall and opened up. Someone was searching for something very hard in here,
and I hope they didn’t find it. Every cabinet door is open like a ghost came
through to terrorize me.

Jonah ignores the mess, tiptoes through it, and grabs two,
large knives. He hands me one and then we head for the downstairs bedroom
first. He tells me to wait outside the door with a movement of his hand, and I
turn to watch the hallway that leads through the center of the house for anyone
coming or going. The house feels as though it’s a gravesite it’s so quiet.

I catch a glimpse of the room as Jonah comes out, and it looks
just as bad as the kitchen. Then we head up the stairs single file with me
walking backwards. At the top of the steps, the floorboard squeaks painfully
loud, and I feel my heart speed up in my chest. Jonah leaves me at the top of
the stairs as he checks my father’s room, the bathroom, and then my old room.

He’s walking back towards me at the top of the steps when I
hear the back door slam, and I can’t help the loud scream that erupts from me.
Jonah puts a hand over my mouth to stifle the noise and then he flies down the
steps after the sound. I’m right on his heels, and just as we open up the back
door we see the shape of a man running into the woods.

Jonah makes to take off after the man, but I drop the knife
and grab him with both hands.

“No! What if he has a gun? Let him go, and we’ll call the
police!” He struggles with my grip for a few seconds, and then reason seems to
take him over. I go back into the house and try to call the police from the
landline, but the phone is dead. There’s a sour taste in my mouth as I pull my
cellphone out. Jonah takes it from me with a leery look and calls himself.

“Yes, this is Jonah Quinton. I’m at the D’Salvatore
residence, and it looks like someone broke in. The intruder ran out the back
and into the trees behind the residence.” He waits a few seconds, and I assume
the emergency operator is speaking. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” He hangs up the
phone, and I plant myself against the exterior wall of the home. The rain is
still coming down pretty heavy so I couldn’t get a clear identification of the
intruder. But it wasn’t Henry Cooper. The silhouette was too small for him.

“What the hell is happening to my life?” I whisper as I
stare out at the trees. Jonah puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me
close.

“I could say the same.” He mumbles as we wait for the
beginnings of sirens in the distance. It doesn’t take them long to get there
and find us at the back of the house. Chief Robertson is with them and confirms
my suspicions.

“Henry Cooper is at home with his wife and has been for the
past day. So can you tell me who it was?” I shake my head, and Jonah looks
forlorn as we head back through the house and out to the front. They’re already
dusting for prints and bagging evidence, although I have no idea why they would
want pieces of the broken dishes.

“It looks like the intruder cut himself on one of the
glasses.” The Chief explains, and for once since the beginning of this mess, I
feel a tiny bit of hope. But I don’t let it grow because it’s been dashed
against the rocks several times now.

“How long until you know whose it is?” Jonah asks for me,
looking as if he’s hopeful, as well.

“Well, it all depends on if we have the information in the
database already and if we do it will still be a few days.” I don’t know what
to say to him because I have no idea who it was that was in my father’s
farmhouse ransacking. “Why don’t you head back to the hotel suite and stay put
for a few days? We’ll know who it was by then, and I have no doubts that the
person who was in here is the person who killed your father and caused you all
this trouble. We’ll find him, Ana.” He moves to put his hand onto my shoulder,
and I let him begrudgingly.

Jonah escorts me back to the car, and we sit inside with the
doors open and our legs hanging out on either side. I don’t know if they’re
going to need a statement from me again, a formal one. I’m really starting to
grow tired of police reports and my life being turned upside down. If I could
just catch the person who is doing this or find that video tape, then I might
be able to lead a semblance of a normal life.

The Chief tells Jonah that we can go, so I swing myself
inside the car and close my door with a little too much force. I get a sideways
glance for the attitude, and the radio turned on as we head back to the hotel.
It’s still raining, but not nearly as bad. I follow my roommate up the steps to
the suite entrance and flop onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar.

“Do you want to tell me what happened at the station?” I
almost jump when he speaks beside me because I was so lost in my own thoughts.
The stool teeters dangerously as I lean it back on two legs and prop my knees
against the counter. My arms come up to wrap around the knobby knees as I stare
at the fridge across the kitchenette from me.

“Well, he doesn’t believe me.” He drifts into my vision and
pulls out a bottle of soda, pours us both plastic cups full, and then sits down
beside me. I sip on the fizzy soda.

“Why not?” The cup hits the counter a little too hard, and
some soda splashes out onto my fingers. I wish I could control the anger
starting to bubble up again like hot, fluid lava.

“Chief Robertson was at Mrs. Hash’s yesterday, and he saw me
with the champagne. He believes I’m mistaken because I was on edge and tipsy.
He
also
said that Henry has only been home long enough to have burned
down the barn and kidnapped me. But there is no possible way he is my father’s
killer.” Jonah’s fingers start to wrap around the plastic cup too tightly, and
it makes a crinkling noise.

“You weren’t too drunk to know the difference, Anastasia, I
was there. You know what you saw. It doesn’t matter that he might not be your
father’s killer, what if he’s your kidnapper? I mean it would be great to tie
everything up in a nice, neat bow. But what if there are two different people
doing these things?” As soon as the words fly from his mouth, I feel my gut
twist at the cold reality. Jonah’s right, there could be two people doing these
things, and they’re most likely related.

I stop myself from pulling out my cellphone to call the
Chief. In two days' time,  he’ll know soon enough that Benjamin and Henry
Cooper are most likely in on this together. Jonah appears to sense the change
in me from anger to resignation, but he doesn’t ask for the reason.

Instead, he slides off his stool and puts his hands lightly
on my shoulders. At first I tense under his touch, and he immediately moves his
hands back until it’s just his fingertips touching the fabric of my shirt.
Gentler than the feel of the wind across my face, Jonah moves his fingers back
and forth across my shoulders.

With each passing minute, his hands become a little rougher
until he’s giving me a full-blown shoulder massage. My head droops forward, and
the pressure between my eyes eases as his fingers slip beneath my shirt
occasionally. Whether the skin to skin contact is accidental, I can’t say. I do
know that it’s doing some pretty wild things to my heart right now.

Neither one of us speak about the massage after he’s
finished. I sip on my soda while he reads a book, and I attempt to get some
work done on my laptop. Sporadically, my eyes roam to where he’s sitting, and
he looks up at me with patience, unsmiling. Only when I feel my lips curl up in
response to the care in his eyes does he grace me with a smile.

I’ve always wanted to work and be an adult. I never realized
that being an adult means having adult relationships, and I’ve been missing out
on the sweeter side of a relationship. My life was bare before I meant
Anastasia D’Salvatore, and now it’s just starting to be filled with the want,
the
need
, to do more as a person. I want to be better for her, whether
it means going to therapy or taking my medication.

Her blonde hair is spread out over my jean clad thigh with
her face positioned so that her nose is almost touching my knee. I let my eyes
roam over the curve of her hips all the way to her legs dangling off the arm of
the sofa. My fingers are tangled in her hair, and I know that if I move them I
will wake her. So in the meantime, I try to remember how we got in this
position exactly.

Flashes of the movie we were watching last night clouds my
mind, and the last time I glanced at the clock it was one thirty in the
morning. Her head shifts and the strands of hair successfully loosen themselves
from my grasp. I put my arms up behind my head and look at the ceiling as I try
to think of a tasteful way to get out from under her without her knowing.
There’s no possible way of getting out of this without embarrassing her.

The simple fact is, I don’t really want to wake her up in
this moment. I’d rather be able to sit here and wait for her to wake up on her
own, that way I can savor this slice of heaven for a few more minutes to an
hour. But my medication is in the bathroom attached to my room, and I’m already
half an hour late taking it. So I lower one of my hands slowly and rub it up
and down her upper arm lightly.

Just my fingertips move over her shirt sleeves, but it’s
enough to bring her back to reality. I try not to jump when she rolls her face
over and almost plants it in a very private area. Her eyes are open, so I slide
out from under her before she can realize what is happening.

Her throat clears as she sits up and tries to make her hair
more presentable by running her hands through it. She succeeds in making it
look even more bed-hair sexy than before, and I turn away from her before she
can see just how much waking up to find her in close proximity has affected me.
My hand visibly shakes when I reach for a water bottle and pop the pills in. I
guzzle them down, and ignore the way her arm brushes against mine as she
reaches for the bottled water we’ve been using for the coffee pot.

“I’m going to shower.” I tell her quickly before I retreat
into my room like a coward. The cold shower that I take doesn’t help me much
for the first time in my life. What makes it worse is the fact that I can hear
her in her own shower, and I can’t stop thinking about the fact that she’s not
wearing any clothes.

I take up my trademark spot in the leather chair and try to
drown myself in one of the books I brought along from the cabin, but it’s no
use. I’m stuck sipping my coffee, watching her emerge from her own room in a
sweat shirt and a pair of jeans. I can tell that she’s wearing nothing but a
camisole beneath the sweat shirt by the way it rolls off her shoulder and only
two straps are visible.

“You don’t have to wear that.” I tell her while I flip one
of the book pages. I’m not really reading it, but I need to do something to
keep myself busy as I say the words.

“When I don’t wear sleeves, people stare.” I quirk up one
corner of my mouth even though I feel kind of sick inside because I wish that
my deficiencies were easily covered with a sweatshirt.

“I won’t stare at you. I promise.” I look up from the book
to make eye contact with her, but she’s pouring a cup of coffee into a rather
large mug. Her left hand shakes as she reaches for the sugar bowl, and I know
that my words have touched her in some way. Without looking up at me, she puts
in six teaspoons of sugar and methodically pours a little creamer into the
coffee. If a horse drank that coffee, it would be around the world in about
five minutes.

Then she sits down at the breakfast bar with her back to me,
opens up the laptop she works on so studiously, and I watch her slowly remove
her sweatshirt. It slides down off her shoulders to reveal the bare, untouched
flesh. Then it moves down to reveal her flawless upper back until it slides
past the camisole’s material just at the bottom of her shoulder blades. Who
knew watching a woman take off a sweatshirt would be arousing?

My face is tilted downwards as if I’m looking at the book in
front of me, but I can see her out of my peripheral vision glance up at me to
see if I’m staring. She won’t understand that I’m not staring at the scars up
and down her arms. I’m mentally attempting to keep myself under control.
Anastasia D’Salvatore might be the death of me yet.

I flip a page and she goes back to typing on her laptop. We
sit that way for a long time, and I finally get lost in the works of Ernest
Hemingway. I’m just at the part where Henry meets Catherine in A Farewell to
Arms when the doorbell rings, and I glance up to see Anastasia get to her feet.
She slips the sweatshirt right back on and closes her laptop lid before she
hops off the stool.

Does she have to wear jeans that tight?
I think as
she walks across the room. Her finger slides over the doorknob, and for an
instant I wonder who could be at the door. We didn’t order out, and most people
would call before they came over. I’m about to tell her to look out the
peephole, but she already has the door partially open.

When her face goes as white as a ghost’s, I realize my
error. I should have offered to get the door because whoever is on the other
side is strong enough to overpower her and shove her back into the room. The
book falls to the floor as I jump to my feet, but my effort is rewarded with a
gun pointed at me from the intruder.

A few seconds tick by where I study the man wearing a pair
of ripped blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and a ski mask. Anastasia stumbles back
to the kitchenette where she tries to quietly open up one of the drawers. The
only metal knives we have are the butter knives, but they’ll do in a pinch. I
deliberately sidestep to distract the man, but I see his eyes shift in
Anastasia’s direction anyway.

“Put the knife down or I’ll shoot him!” It’s starting to
become off season for the hotel, and there aren’t many guests. I doubt anyone
has heard him shout at her, and my hopes die off as soon as he gets the door
closed behind him. He reaches up as he keeps his eyes on Anastasia, who has
followed his orders, and locks the deadbolt.

“You, sit on a stool and keep your hands in the air!” I do
as the madman says without hesitation. Right now placating him is our best
option, until I can get my hands on a weapon. Then I’m going to pummel him to
death before the cops have a chance to arrive.

“Why don’t you take your mask off and we can talk.” I don’t
recognize him, but by the way Anastasia is staring at his face, I can tell she
does. I have a feeling this is her kidnapper, which means he’s one sick puppy.

“Fuck off, Quinton. Come over here and kneel down, bitch!” I
watch out of the corner of my eyes as Anastasia takes a jerky step forward.

“Don’t, sweetheart, he’s not going to shoot you. He wants to
know where that tape is.” I stare at the hazel eyes surrounded by the ski mask
and try to imprint them into my mind. If this asshole gets away before I can
kill him, I’ll remember the eyes. The next time I see them, I’ll pull them
right out of the sockets.

“No, I won’t shoot you, D’Salvatore. But Quinton’s going to
eat lead if you don’t do as I say.” The gun is turned on me again, but I don’t
flinch away. He’s about ten feet in front of me, which is a large gap for
someone facing a gun. I won’t be able to get to him in time without potentially
being shot.

“Don’t!” I yell at her as she starts to walk towards the
brute. His body structure is close to Henry’s, but I’m not sure that it’s him.

“Kneel down!” The gun jerks from Anastasia’s face to in my
direction within a few seconds, and she whimpers as she kneels down in front of
the masked man. I feel bile starting to gather in my throat as I realize he
might intend to rape her, and suddenly it’s as if I’m floating along on a sea
of calm. My heartbeat slows and my breathing becomes even as I stare at those
hazel eyes.

“If you touch her, I’ll make sure you never see the light of
day again, motherfucker.” I’m not sure if it’s Tom’s voice or my own that
emerges from my mouth, but hearing those words from someone who has been
certified as crazy seems to shake the masked man a little. The gun twitches
once, and then he takes a step back from Anastasia and reaches behind him.

From his waistband, he withdraws two plastic cuffs. So I’m
needed beyond this point. First he puts his boot on Anastasia’s shoulder and
pushes her down onto the ground. Then he straddles her waist and rolls her over
beneath him. Her face is pale, and she’s as loose as a ragdoll. I don’t know
where she’s gone, but Anastasia is not with me anymore. I can see that when her
glassy eyes stare straight ahead as she’s cuffed.

Next is a blindfold from his back pocket. I wonder why he’s
blindfolding her. It’s not as though he’s going to get us out of here without
someone seeing, right? I hold onto the hope that someone will see him escorting
one of us to his car, and the police will be called. Or he’ll screw up, and
I’ll have the opportunity to get my hands around his throat. But right now, I’m
no use to Anastasia dead.

He tosses the plastic cuffs to me and instructs me to put
them on from the front. I use my teeth to tighten the plastic cuffs, but try to
leave enough room that I might get my hands free later.

“Tighter!” He takes a step towards me, and I give him my
best ‘I’m crazy’ smile as I hold my wrists out to him.

“Why don’t you come do it?” I ask him innocently as I
prepare myself to tear my wrists free as soon as he gets close enough.

“Do you think I’m fucking stupid? Pull them tighter!”
Frustrated, I do as he says. I can tell he hasn’t thought this through very
well. I still have full use of my arms, which means when he gets close enough
to blindfold me I’ll be able to retaliate. I feel the smirk tugging at my lips,
and wonder just how he’s going to finagle this one.

With the gun pressed to my temple, he manages to get the
blindfold around my head without losing his grip on the weapon. I close my eyes
as the cloth comes over my vision, and take in a deep breath. I hold it,
waiting for him to slip. But he must have practiced this, or we’re not his
first victims.

Now that I’m sufficiently blindfolded and cuffed without too
much of a struggle, the man pushes me off the stool. I was waiting for the
gesture, and land on my feet with only one stumbled step forward. Anastasia’s
breathing is loud and labored nearby, but I can’t reach out to feel her. I hear
the deadbolt unlock, and then the door closes.

I’m pretty sure we’re alone, but I don’t say a word in case
we’re not. This man knows I care for her, and therefore, he will use that
against me. The door opens and closes again, and the sound of shoes scraping
across the floor meets my ears. His breathing is labored, so I assume he’s
under a lot of stress. I hear Anastasia squeak, and then her sounds are
muffled. Then there is something being put into my mouth and tied around my
head a second time.

Once we get to his destination, I’ll overpower him and take
him out. Whether that means I’m going to get shot or not, doesn’t bother me
anymore. I should have tried something before this moment.
Damn right you
should have.
Tom whispers in the back of my mind.
Now is not the time.
I respond.

I hear the door open and close again, and this time I’m not
able to hear the ragged breathing of Anastasia in the room. It takes a few
minutes, and during those minutes I try my hardest to get the plastic cuffs off
so that I can ambush him when he comes back in. But my twisting and cussing is
fruitless.

“They don’t look very strong, but they’re pretty good.” My
cussing stops midstream when I hear him talk, and I realize that he probably
never left the room. There is someone else working with him.

Strong hands pull me up by the shoulders, and by the feel of
them they’re larger than the first guy who came in. I’m pushed out the door of
the suite and led down the steps like an invalid. Then I’m put into a trunk
next to a warm body, and I realize it’s Anastasia. She attempts to say
something, but I can’t understand her around the gag. I roll over so that I’m
almost spooning her and try to pull the plastic cuffs free.

My hands feel almost raw by the time I get the cheap,
plastic handcuffs to pull loose on one wrist. Her arms immediately pull towards
her front, and she removes my blindfold and the gag first. Then she starts to
work on my cuffs, but her hands are too weak from the lack of circulation. I
stop her as the car slows down, and our breaths mingle as our noses touch.
Neither one of us can see in the dark trunk.

“Listen,” She’s still trying to get the cuffs off.
“Anastasia, I want you to curl up along the back of the trunk. I’m going to lie
in front of you, and when they open up the trunk I’m going to try to overpower
them. If you can, I want you to run.” I hear her draw in a deep breath to
protest, and lift my hands up to put a finger to her lips.

“Just run, and get help. I’ll hold them off as long as
possible. They won’t kill me because they’ll need a hostage or I can tell them
I know where this tape is at.” I’m lying through my teeth to her right now. I
think we both know that if she gets away, I’m dead. But she nods against my
fingers anyway.

I open up my hands and find her cheeks with my fingers. Wetness
trails down over them, and I bring her face to mine. First our noses touch as
the car begins to move again, and then I find her lips with mine. This time is
not like the incident in the farmhouse. I taste her slowly, and then she opens
her mouth for me and all I have is the scent of her skin and the feel of her
lips on mine.