Nowhere to Hide (35 page)

“Sheila named you as her beneficiary,” September said.

He blinked. “She did?” he asked in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“No. Phil just left the will at his house, apparently. He said he half-assed it. Looks like she never had a copy herself. But it’s probably still valid. I don’t know. You’d have to check.”

“I don’t want anything of Sheila’s. That’s . . . bizarre. I hardly knew her.” He peered at her closely. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying . . . I don’t know. It doesn’t look good. I haven’t reported it, because I just don’t want to. They’ve already taken me off the case. This just feels like a dead end.”

“Who are you trying to convince?” Jake asked. He’d picked up one half of his BLT, but now dropped it back to the plate. “Is that what this is? You think this means . . . I had something to do with—”

“No. I know you didn’t.”

“Yeah?”

“But they’ll ask you about it, if I tell them. The feds. They’ll probably put you on the hot seat because that’s what they do.”

“And you’re afraid of that?” He could feel the heat rise up his throat.

“I’m just warning you.”

“You think I had something to do with Sheila’s death,” he stated coldly.

“No! I told you I don’t. Stop putting words in my mouth.”

“To hell with this,” he muttered, getting to his feet. He felt angry and frustrated. “You take this cop thing way too far.”

“You make it sound like my career choice is a joke!” Her face was flushed and her eyes flashed blue fire.

“Nope. I just think you’re trying to make your career be everything. Everything you are. You don’t want there to be any Nine Rafferty in there anymore,” he said, pointing at her. “It’s all
Detective
Rafferty.”

“That’s hardly fair,” she snapped.

“Yeah? Well, the guy you’re looking for is out there,” he grated, swinging his arm to point through her living room window. “Not here. He’s probably planning something more right now. Something against
you.
And you’re thinking I had something to do with this?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Her jaw was tight.

“It is what you’re saying. You just don’t want to believe it.” He stalked to the door. Twisting the knob, he hesitated a moment, looking back at her wide eyes and stubborn chin. “I’ll call you,” he stated flatly, and then he went out the door and down the steps, wanting to slam his fist into the wall at the back of her parking lot, managing to hold himself back with the shreds of his self-control.

As soon as he was gone, September felt herself grow hot with regret and anxiety. That had gone about as badly as she’d expected it to. And the way he’d said, “I’ll call you,” didn’t much sound like he meant it.

“Peachy,” she said to the hollow emptiness of the room, fighting back a sting in her nose and eyes. She shook her head and inhaled several deep breaths. She’d warned him. That’s all she could do. At least now if—when—the federal agents came to interview him, he’d know what it was about.

The guy you’re looking for is out there, not here. He’s probably planning something more right now.

September turned her gaze to the window, knowing Jake was probably right.

He stood in the center of the field, staring up at the stars flickering in the black sky. His head was pounding, his nerves sending hot messages up his limbs and through his body to his brain, which felt about to explode.

He’d followed her and Westerly to the vineyard, Westerly Vale. He’d been afraid to pull into the long driveway behind them, so he’d pulled into a dusty turnout down the highway and hiked back, being careful not to be seen as he sneaked through the trees and vines and hedges that lined the drive.

They were already inside when he got close, and he’d been glad for the binoculars he kept in the van. He’d grabbed them up before he started his trek, and then he’d lifted them to his eyes just as a light switched on in one of the upper rooms of the house that faced the rolling acres of vines. He’d seen a faint outline of two people. Something indistinct, but in his mind’s eye he saw them embracing. Their silhouettes frantically groping as they fell to the bed.

He’d heard the howl of pain and realized it issued from his own throat, so he’d quickly and stealthily moved back to the van, firing it up, his hands on the wheel, his foot pressed to the accelerator. The beast took over and when he finally wrested control again, he was twenty miles in the wrong direction. He’d turned around and driven back to his place, throwing a glance toward the old lady’s house when he arrived, but there were no lights showing.

Good.

But he’d been sick with fury and hate, lying on his cot, as if he were in a fever.

Westerly Vale. Jake Westerly.

He wanted to plunge his knife into his chest over and over again. Cut out the bastard’s heart. Castrate him. Feed him piece by piece to the vermin that roamed in the fields.

He’d skipped work again this morning, but Mel had called him on his disposable cell phone, demanding to know where he was. He’d told the truth: he was sick, but Mel didn’t want to hear it. He’d given Mel the number; he’d had to. But now he would have to ditch this phone and get another. Mel had the old lady’s address, but it couldn’t be helped. If things got too close, Mel may have to have an accident, but he feared that may bring them down on him too soon.
September
down on him too soon.

He wanted her now.

But was now the right time? Would it be the end? He’d expected to hear that she’d received his latest message, but there’d been nothing on the news. He had cable and wireless Internet, courtesy of the old bitch if she but knew it, but though he’d waited and searched and ached for news, it felt like he’d been cut off.

Now, trembling as if he’d aged a thousand years, he got up from the cot and went to his treasures. It took all his willpower, but he bypassed the box with September’s special gifts and instead pulled out the rest of what he’d saved.

Closing his eyes, he tried to drag Sheila Dempsey’s image to his mind, but it was nearly impossible. September was always imposed over all of them, but with an effort, he pushed September back and pulled Sheila forward and now his mind could see her again, standing with a group of friends at The Barn Door.

She was beautiful. Trim dancer’s body in a low-cut, white lacy top and denim jeans. The dusky hollow between her breasts mesmerized him. He should have turned away and left as soon as he saw her, but the beast’s eyes were locked onto those mounded breasts. It was too late. She saw him and frowned, then her brow cleared and he knew she recognized him. He couldn’t back out. He had to try and pull it off, to talk to her, but he should’ve known better. That never worked with the laughers. He told her that her skin was smooth, and she said, “Still have your knives?” as she backed away. Her words filled him with rage, and he made the mistake of reaching out and brushing a hand along her hip. He wanted to touch her breasts but he couldn’t be that obvious. She moved away as if repulsed and the beast—always so hard to contain—lifted up and roared. He said something else, and she snapped back at him to leave her alone, and then a man was there, asking if she needed help.

He quickly left, but he watched for her to leave, noted her car. The next time she came back to The Barn Door, he pulled his van in beside her car and waited. She came out of the place with friends, but they parted and she took her time, searching in her purse for her keys. He was crouched in front of his van, and was wondering if he would have to wait, but her friends backed out and turned onto the highway just as Sheila reached her car. He leapt forward, slipped the noose over her neck and pulled, all the while moving her in his arms to his van, as if he were helping a drunk. She struggled, but it was over before she could make a sound. He slipped her limp form into the passenger seat of the van, and no one saw.

He took her to the cot and made love to her . . . to September. . . dreaming of sea anemones. He kept the noose tight and every time September came to and begged to be free, he pulled it tight again until she was gone.

He lay with her for hours. At least that’s what it felt like. But then he awoke as if doused in ice water and saw the beast had marked her flesh with the knife. He felt as if he should understand, but he didn’t. He just knew he had to get rid of her body. Not September. Sheila. He had to keep reminding himself.

When he was rid of her, he felt empowered. The red mist he saw through when the need was on him was gone. He’d sent the beast back to the cave once again.

He blamed September for it. Like the bad thing he’d done . . . the bad thing that had gotten him sent away. It was her fault. Her false kindness was a torture from which there was no release.

He thought he’d vanquished the beast once again, like he had so many years ago, but he was wrong. This time, with Sheila, he’d given it a taste of pleasures that could no longer be denied.

He trolled other bars, watched other women, and then, there was Emmy Decatur, dancing and flirting and rubbing her body up and down all the men in the bar. The beast took it as a sign. She was a laugher, too. A different place. A different time. But she’d teased and taunted and she was tight and firm and the beast watched her parade herself on the dance floor. Again, he knew better than to be seen, so he left the bar before she could remember him from Grandview.

But he couldn’t stay away. The beast wouldn’t let him. It was dangerous, but he was drawn back. This time he followed her to her apartment. It was dark. The parking lot light was out. Before he really thought it through, he pulled his van up beside hers and as she got out, she saw him.

“Hey, Wart,” she called loudly.

He glanced around in fear but no one heard. He came up to her and slid his arms around her, as if they were in an embrace. Surprisingly, she was drunk and seemed willing, so he lured her into his van and to the cot room. At Grandview he’d tried to have sex with her in the bathroom, and she’d freaked and called holy hell down on him, but now. . . . Then she stumbled at the stairs. Tried to change her mind, but he wasn’t going to let her, this time. He tamed her with the noose and took her upstairs, threw her down and rode her. And then . . . and then . . . she called him
names
! Told him he was a fucking joke and they all laughed at him! He thought he was such a stud at Grandview. Strutting around like a cock. He should still be in Grandview! That outpatient treatment he moved into was just their way of getting rid of him. Nobody wanted him.
Nobody.
He never got cured, like she did. Never even improved. He was always telling the newbies what a badass he was, when he was just a sick fuck. Then and now.

Her mouth was grinning. September’s mouth. He could hear the laughter.

He pulled the noose until his arms ached, but then he killed her too quick. He never reached full pleasure. In a fury he carved into her flesh
DO UNTO OTHERS AS SHE DID TO ME
. The words came out of the beast but when he saw what he’d done, he knew it was right.

And then Glenda . . .

He’d seen September on the news, speaking Navarone’s name, and it threw him back to his nights with Glenda in the examining room. He’d half-believed he loved her. He was over September! It was finished! He almost cried with the relief of it. Here was someone who cared about him, and he could bury the laughers forever.

But then he learned that Glenda was only interested in fucking if she thought her uncle might catch her, and before long, she was gone. No longer hanging around Grandview, her dark eyes searching through the sick rubble of her uncle’s patients for a quick screw.

This summer he’d found Glenda at The Lariat, but after his experiences with Sheila and Emmy, this time he was very, very careful to keep her from seeing him before he was ready. He watched from deep in the shadows of the bar. Watched her line dance, her attention only on learning the steps. The wild child he’d known had turned into someone aloof, someone
respectable.
Ha! He knew her . . . he knew her . . . and then after September spoke to him through the television, he knew it was a message. It was time to take her. So, when all the shit was raining down on her uncle, he followed Glenda home and reminded her of who she really was.

But after Glenda he couldn’t wait. He went for the whore. And he didn’t want to take her back to his place so he used her in the field.

And now . . . ? He pressed his fingers to his temples, feeling the beat of the beast’s heart within him, suffocating him.
Is it time for September? Is it?
He thought he would know for certain by now, but he was unsure.

Just thinking about her got him worked up. His head was pounding and he couldn’t see for the red mist in front of his eyes. The beast wanted a woman. Dark-haired. Like September . . . but not her yet . . .
not yet.

In a wild panic he ran outside to the van, fired it up, headed back toward Laurelton. No . . . not Laurelton . . . too soon . . . Portland.

He drove with controlled passion, forcing his foot from the throttle. Couldn’t get picked up by the cops. The cops . . . the fucking cops . . . like September.

He surfaced long moments later to recognize that he’d driven to Grandview Hospital. Only it wasn’t a hospital any longer. It was an old persons’ home. Grandview Senior Care. He could see a stack of wheelchairs through the doors that had once led to the hospital, and several older people shuffling along.

His fury was sudden and unexpected. Why couldn’t the old lady be here with them? The house, the land . . . all of it should be his.
She
should be at Grandview, while
he
should own all the acreage.

He drove away from Grandview to the nearest bar. It was swanky, compared to his usual haunts. Had the air of a British pub and mullioned windows and outside tables with candles and propane heaters, unused tonight, as the heat felt thick enough to wade through.

It wasn’t his kind of place but he couldn’t stop himself. The beast was making the choices and there was a woman just inside the open door, sitting at the bar, her head turned toward a male companion.