The City Beneath (3 page)

The man's voice soaked through my resolve and drowned my brain. Unwillingly, I looked into his eyes. The moment his blue-and-ice gaze met mine, the pain and panic and fear leaked away. I felt my body suddenly go limp as it forgot to resist. My head lolled to the side, too heavy to support, and my expression sagged with the release of tension and strain. The physical world narrowed to his penetrating gaze on mine and my willingness to act on the breath of his next word, even as my mind shrieked at me to fight.

“You will write a retraction of the article about the deaths at Paerdegat Park,” he stated.

Never!
my mind screamed. “I will write a retraction,” I murmured. My voice was compliant and monotone and not my own.

“The wounds on the victims were clean slices, from knives perhaps. Not animal bites,” he continued.

“The wounds on the victims were probably inflicted by knives,” I repeated, internally horrified. “Not animal bites.”

“You never saw me burned yesterday, and you never saw me here today. If I ever have need to seek you out again, I will kill you.”

My anger skyrocketed, breaking his hold on my mind. The pain and fear and adrenaline spiked through the mental fog, and I shouted, “You sick son of a bitch! If
I
ever see
you
again, I'll stab you through your fu—”

His gaze burned into mine again, and I drooped back into limp numbness. “Cassidy DiRocco, you encountered me neither here nor at the park!”

Fuck!
“I never encountered you.”

“Someone tried to mug you at knifepoint on your way home from dinner with Meredith. He stabbed you in the shoulder. You used your pepper spray, he stabbed you once more, and then he ran off with nothing more than having spilled your sushi. Your shoulders will heal without medical attention.”

“I was mugged, but I don't need medical attention.”
Dear God,
I thought,
he knows everyone I know and everywhere I've been.

“There's a good girl,” he growled. “Is anyone in your apartment at the moment? I would hate to leave you wandering the streets with armed muggers on the loose.”

Yes, I have a six-foot-four, ex-linebacker husband and a trained, attack rottweiler waiting for me at home.
“My apartment is empty,” I droned, wanting to tear out my own throat.

He cocked his head slightly, no longer studying me but obviously studying something. He wasn't breathing or moving or even blinking. I realized after a moment that he was listening.

“Most people are eating in,” he commented. “Something you should perhaps consider in the future when it's this late. Are you on the first, fourth, or fifth floor?”

“Fifth,” I whispered. I couldn't tremble because my body was limp and pliant in his talons, but my heart clenched in a hard, shivering knot of dread. He was going to know where I lived. And I was going to be the one to tell him.

“Does one of your windows face this alley?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect,” he said, refocusing on me. His eyes bore into mine again when he spoke. “Tell me I may enter your apartment, and you may sleep.”

“You may enter my apartment, and I may sleep,” I gritted out smartly, and my eyes slammed shut. My body completely sagged, boneless, suspended from the wall only by his talons. My mind, however, remained awake. I felt the man dislodge his fingers from my upper arms and catch me against the front of his body. His claw-like hand pressed firmly at the small of my back, clamping me to him. He crouched forward for a moment. My head lolled back. The rattling hiss in his chest intensified, and I felt his breath move over my throat, the side of my neck, behind my ear. He smelled inexplicably like Christmas, like soft pine next to a hearth. His teeth grazed the slow, calm beat of my pulse. In my mind, I screamed and fought and died with my spirit and dignity intact. In reality, I lay bent back over his arm, immobile and defenseless.

The man suddenly sprang from his crouch. My stomach bottomed out from the movement, and I felt a swift rush of wind against my face as if he'd leapt into the air, but gravity did not pull us back down. I heard the quick slide of a window opening and smelled the vanilla lime scent of the candles in my fifth-story apartment bedroom. His footsteps tapped on my hardwood floors, and I realized that the man must be wearing dress shoes. How his shoes could ever matter after all this, I didn't know; I just found the thought of him wearing dress shoes, like his voice, at odds with the sheer animal of the man himself.

He laid my body down on the bed. My head dropped at an uncomfortable angle that constricted my breathing. I heard myself wheeze. He cupped the nape of my neck and positioned my head on the pillow at a more natural angle. His fingernail scraped across my hairline to my neck. I felt his thumb caress the skin under my ear as he lingered.

The man's breathing suddenly turned ragged, and his hand disappeared. “Good night, Cassidy DiRocco,” he said. I felt the air whoosh around me as he disappeared. The window snapped shut, and my room felt still and silent and peaceful in his absence.

The moment the man was gone, however, my body sprang to life. Everything returned in an overwhelming rush—the fear, pain, panic, adrenaline, and control—and my throat constricted with the aching burn of tears. Trembling and weak, I pulled my leather bag across my chest. I kept my eyes trained on the bedroom window with steady obsession, bracing for his reappearance, but even after what felt like an eternity, he didn't return. I dug the phone from my bag and dialed 911.

The moment that dispatch answered, I whispered shakily, “I need to report an assault. I've just been attacked outside my apartment on 346 East 29th Street. And hurry. He may still be nearby.”

“W
hat the hell is this?” I asked, slamming the door to Carter's office and slapping the morning newspaper on his gleaming wooden desk.

Last night had been excruciating. I'd been out until well past midnight, giving statements at the precinct and waiting in Emergency at the hospital for stitches, X-rays, and antibiotics. Between the sharp ache in my shoulders from the stitches and the constant grind of my hip, it took more willpower than I liked to admit not to pick up the Percocet the ER doctor had prescribed. I took Tylenol instead, pretended it was helping, and lay in bed with my eyes open until my alarm buzzed.

For the first time in the seven years I'd lived in my apartment, I locked every window frame and snapped open every window stop. Five stories high, the only entrance that I'd ever bolted was my front door, but lying in bed with only plastic window locks and snaps between me and my attacker, I couldn't fall asleep. It took less than three minutes to guilt my landlord into buying fortified window locks for my apartment. He'd been expecting my call. The police must have interviewed him, too, because he'd already called the smith and assured me that locks would be installed that afternoon.

With my apartment taken care of, I had fully intended to rest and recover and take care of myself—I swear I would have—until I read the morning paper. A retraction had been printed on
my
headline about the seven deaths at Paerdegat Park, discrediting that the victims had suffered from animal bites. The article stated that an animal attack wasn't even being investigated, that the wounds on the victims were clean slices, likely from knives.

I stared at the paper, shocked. A byline didn't even credit the retraction to anyone. Who would write this garbage, and how did Carter let this bullshit slip past his radar? I called Meredith, but she didn't pick up. Nathan forwarded my call straight to voice mail—the bum—so I tossed my leather bag gently over my shoulder, gripped the pepper spray in my hand as I left the apartment, and caught a taxi to confront Carter himself.

“You don't see them very often, DiRocco, but the rest of us mortals know them as retractions,” Carter said dryly.

“This story did not need a retraction,” I said, poking the paper on his desk with my index finger. “Every single word of it was true. I saw it firsthand.
Especially
the bite marks.”

“You're pushing your luck here. The police are breathing down my neck because of you, so I don't need this bullshit.”

“The police gave me that quote! I have a picture of the bite mark. We used it in yesterday's article for heaven's sake, and Meredith took the picture herself. Ask her.”

“I did. She wrote the retraction herself.”

I pulled back, stunned. “She what?”

“She apologized, said she had no idea what the two of you had been thinking, blamed it on some bad sushi, and printed the retraction this morning.”

“We didn't have sushi until afterward. Did you see the picture?”

“I didn't see any damn picture of any damn bite mark.”

“Yes, you did. You approved it. Where's your paper from yesterday?” I asked, glancing around the office. “I'll just
show
you.”

“There was no picture.”

“Prove it. Show me yesterday's paper, and show me that—”

“Are you telling me that I don't know my own paper?”

“No. I'm telling you that there's been a mistake, and it wasn't from me. We printed the picture—”

Carter held up a hand for silence. “There was no picture,” he repeated, his voice final. “It's your first retraction in the eight years you've worked for me. I would actually take pleasure in your mistake if it wasn't such a high profile case.” He gestured with his hand as if setting a headline, “The great Cassidy DiRocco makes a retraction-able error! Stop the damn presses!”

“Carter, I—”

“Don't let it happen again, DiRocco, or you're fired. Get the hell out of my office and rest so you can return tomorrow with something credible to write about!” Carter shouted after me, and he slammed the door firmly shut.

I stared at the closed door, stunned. I'd never been kicked out of Carter's office, not even as an intern. Not that his antics weren't a common occurrence, but they had never been directed at me. I was efficient and ruthless and scrupulous, and my articles did
not
need retractions
.

According to Deborah, our administrative assistant, Meredith left for home directly after submitting the retraction, still suffering from the lingering effects of bad sushi, but I had a hunch that her illness was actually the result of an impossibly strong, fanged, ruthless man who seemed hell-bent on coercing retractions from seasoned reporters. I gave up on Carter for the moment and left the office to do what I did best: prove my hunches right.

On my way to Meredith's apartment, I bought a tub of chicken noodle soup and flaky biscuits at the market. If she'd lived through the same night I'd lived through, her body would be aching and sore, too. We needed comfort food.

A taxi dropped me off in front of her apartment. I walked to the entry and pressed the Call button on the intercom, but no one answered. I pressed it six more times.

Meredith finally picked up. “When someone doesn't answer, it usually means they don't want to be bothered,” she snapped.

“Nope. It usually means that someone is avoiding my questions.”

“I don't feel well, Cass. That sushi—”

“Excuse is bullshit, but I can play nice. I even brought soup.”

Meredith paused. “From the market.”

“Yep.”

“And biscuits.”

I smiled. “Of course.”

“And you won't ask any questions,” Meredith pressed.

“I said that I'd play nice.”

“That's not quite the same.”

“No, it's not. If I said otherwise, it'd be a lie. Hurry up. Your soup is getting cold.”

She buzzed me in.

I tried not to ambush her with questions and accusations the moment I crossed the threshold because, as I'd suspected, she looked as worn and bruised and beaten as I felt. We bundled down on her oversized couch to relax, but once we'd finished the soup, I couldn't contain myself.

“You were attacked last night, too,” I said, biting into my second biscuit.

Meredith opened her mouth.

“I can tell. You're mincing around this apartment like you're walking on glass. You're bruised, aren't you?”

“I was just mugged.” Meredith nibbled on her biscuit. “Nothing like what you went through.”

I bit into my biscuit and shook the remaining half at her as I spoke. “You let that man bully you into writing a retraction, Meredith. How could you? At the very least, you should have talked to me, so I could have talked you out of it.”

Meredith blinked, pausing with a flaky chunk of biscuit halfway to her mouth. “What?”

“We need to dig for the significance of the bite marks,” I mused. “Maybe he's left behind DNA on one of the victims.”

“Cassidy, honey, I don't have a clue what you're talking about. What does the man who mugged me have anything to do with the deaths at Paerdegat Park?”

I trained my hard, alligator eyes on Meredith. “Did the man who attacked you demand that you write the retraction?”

“No, not at all.” Meredith said, looking confused. “Why would he? He was interested in my purse, not my profession.”

I frowned. “What
did
he say, then?”

Meredith laughed. “He didn't say anything! He mugged me, Cassidy. He sidled behind me on the sidewalk, knocked me to the ground, took my purse, and ran off. He wasn't very verbose.”

“Then why did you write a retraction?” I asked point-blank.

“I wrote a retraction because we were wrong. You would have left the lead about the bite marks in the article knowing there were no bites?” Meredith asked, shocked. “The wounds on the victims were clean slices, probably from knives.”

“That lead isn't wrong! There
were
bite marks on the victims! Who told you they were knife wounds? The man who mugged you?”

“No,” Meredith insisted. “Detective Wahl called me this morning. She didn't want to disturb you after you were attacked, but she's pissed. She has no idea why you quoted her about the bite marks because there aren't any. She asked me to write the retraction.”

“That's impossible. We have pictures of the bite marks. You took them, for Christ's sake!” I narrowed my eyes on Meredith as what she said fully processed. “Why did Greta feel like she could disturb you after you were attacked, but not me?”

Meredith took a slow, deliberate bite of her biscuit.

I slammed my spoon down on the end table, disgusted. “You didn't report the mugging.”

“He didn't even take anything! It wasn't worth the bother or the paperwork,” she said.

“I thought he took your purse,” I countered.

“I, well.” Meredith frowned as she stammered, looking confused. She turned her head, and I followed her gaze to her black, cloth and glossy leather Coach handbag sitting on the counter. “He tried to take it,” she said finally, turning to face me. “I was a little shaken, but really, it's not a big deal,” she said.

I covered my face with my hands. “I can't believe I'm hearing this from you right now. We see this nearly every day! Women beaten. Women mugged. Women assaulted. They don't report it because they're scared, which is why you wrote the retraction. He bullied you into writing the retraction, just like he bullied you into not reporting his assault. Admit it.”

Meredith pursed her lips. “I just told you, my mugging has absolutely nothing to do with the retraction I wrote.”

“It's all right to be scared,” I said gently. “I'm scared, too, but you can't just give in. You can't just let this ride. He's a murderer. He could be a cannibal, considering the bite marks!”

“I'm not giving in to anything,” Meredith said, exasperated. “And there were no bite marks. Why won't you believe me?”

I sighed. “Do you have yesterday's paper?”

“Of course.” She stood, shuffled to the kitchen to retrieve yesterday's paper, and eased herself back on the couch.

“This is why I don't believe you,” I said, pointing to the zoomed, color photograph on the front page. “There were bite marks on the bodies. We were there. We saw them ourselves with our own eyes. I wrote about them, and you shot pictures of them. Greta gave me a statement, which I have on record about them.” I shoved the paper into Meredith's hands. “The bite marks were real. What's unreal is how everyone suddenly doesn't remember them. Carter approved the pictures and carries the paper on him like a minister does a Bible, but he doesn't remember them, either. He wouldn't even check yesterday's paper to prove himself right.”

Meredith gaped at the photo, fisting the edges of the paper in her hand as she studied the undeniable truth of those bloody imprints.

I crossed my arms. “You tell me what I should believe.”

“Greta called me. She said there were no bite marks, that we got it wrong,” Meredith squeaked, still staring at the paper.

“When do we ever get a story that wrong, Meredith? Why didn't you check yesterday's paper? Why didn't you look at the photo?” I asked, tapping the paper for emphasis.

She shook her head. “I don't know. I didn't even think to check the paper.”

“You took the photograph yourself!”

“I don't remember taking this photo. Why wouldn't I remember that?” she whispered.

“I don't know, but the man who attacked me didn't want me to remember him, either. He didn't want me to remember the bite marks, and he wanted me to retract the article, too.”

Meredith finally looked up, stricken. “What does that mean, that he didn't
want
you to remember?”

I opened my mouth, so angry about the retraction and at Meredith for writing the retraction and at the man for threatening Meredith that I almost blurted out everything that had happened the night before. I thought of how the man had controlled my mind, and it made me want to scream. I remembered how his fingers had transformed into talons and pierced my shoulders. I remembered the sharp threat of his fangs. I could still see his strange, icy eyes boring into mine, forcing me to say and do exactly as he commanded. I remembered everything despite the fact that he'd told me to forget, and I realized that he'd likely done the same to Meredith. The only difference was, she
had
forgotten. She would never believe me if I told her everything, and I'd only put her in grave danger if she did. I snapped my lips shut.

“I don't know,” I whispered. “He was just adamant that I write that damn retraction.”

“But you didn't,” Meredith whispered. “I did.”

I placed my hand on her knee. “What did your mugger look like?”

“I'm not sure. I didn't get a very good look,” Meredith said, sounding strained.

“Well, what color eyes and hair did he have? How tall was he?” I asked.

“I don't remember.”

“You don't even remember how tall he was?” I asked, incredulous.

Meredith shook her head. “Carter said that my memory might have been paralyzed by shock. I'm honestly not clear on any of the details about what happened. Everything seems vague and hazy. I'm just not sure, Cassidy.” She sighed. “What did your mugger look like?”