Books by Maggie Shayne (212 page)

He held her gaze for a long time.
 
"I knew he had killed before, and I knew he was coming after you next.
 
But I
didn't
know he was Tommy Campbell.
 
And I was a
cop.
 
Mary.
 
A cop.
 
Not a killer.
 
If I had known, I'd have wanted him to do time for it.
 
I'd have tipped off the police, exposed him somehow.
 
I wouldn't have killed him unless he gave me no other choice.
 
I'm not a murderer."

She had to look away from his eyes.
 
He seemed so wounded that she would suspect he had done such a thing.
 
"I'm sorry," she said.
 
"Please remember, Michael, I still don't know you very well."

He sighed, closed a hand around hers.
 
"You know me inside and out.
 
Just like I knew you.
 
I know you feel it, Mary."

Closing her eyes, she let herself admit it to him.
 
"Yes.
 
I do feel it.
 
This odd sense of familiarity, as if you're my best friend.
 
Someone I've loved, and loved me in return, for all my life.
 
Or maybe even longer than that."

Michael made a halfhearted attempt to convince Mary that she didn’t need to comb through the contents of the CD herself—that he could nutshell the important pieces of information for her.
 
He knew before he suggested it that she would never agree.
 
Odd, how well he knew her.
 
As he'd expected, she insisted on seeing for herself.
 
As she clicked through the files, the various reports statements of witnesses, evidences lists, she didn't just skim.
 
She read every word.

"The police knew about the other murders.
 
And the blood connection, too.
 
It's al right here."
 
She pursed her lips, shaking her head as she scrolled down the screen.
 
"There's a notation to keep me under surveillance for my own protection, but it says they saw no need to alarm me, since the chances that my stalker was the same ma who'd murdered those other women was slim to none."

"I can't disagree with their decision on that," Michael said, trying to see the case from a cop's point of view.
 
"If I didn't have this bond with you, then I wouldn't have known it, either.
 
The fact that you happened to have the same rare blood marker as a handful of dead women in other states could have been a coincidence.
 
At least they were taking precautions."

He took her mug from in front of her and refilled it with coffee, then replaced in on the counter.
 
"We really should get you out of this apartment, Mary."

"I don't see the need.
 
The killer is dead."

"But the danger is still here."

She frowned at him.
 
"I don't know what you mean by that.
 
How can
 
it be, when Tommy's dead?"

He sighed, sliding onto a stool next to hers.
 
"I don't know, either.
 
It's there, that's all I can tell you.
 
It's around you like a dark cloud.
 
It hasn't changed in the least since Tommy's death.
 
I know I'm right, Mary."

She pursed her lips.
 
"There's no way you an be.
 
My main goal now has to be to clear myself of suspicion in Tommy's murder.
 
I can't do that if I go into hiding."

He searched her eyes.
 
"If Tommy was the stalker, the murderer, then why is he dead?
 
Who killed him?"

She shook her head slowly.
 
"I don't know.
 
A relative of one of his victims?
 
Or maybe it was completely unrelated."

"I don't believe that."

"What else could it be?"
 
She slid a hand over one of his.
 
"Michael, he's dead.
 
Maybe your... your feelings for me are messing with your reception on this."

He tried that theory on for size, but it didn't fit.
 
He'd trusted his senses for too long to start doubting them now.
 
So if it wasn't that, then what?
 
"Mary what if all the evidence is wrong?
 
What if Tommy wasn't the stalker and some one planted all that stuff to make it look as if he was, then murdered him.
 
It would certainly divert suspicion from themselves."

Her eyes clouded so quickly, so suddenly, that he almost winced.
 
"I thought of that, too.
 
Then I told myself it was too far-fetched.
 
The simplest answer is usually the right one, isn't that what they say?"

"That's what they say.
 
But nothing about this has been simple."

"Do you think it's possible?"

"It's the only explanation I can think of for what I'm sensing."

She swallowed hard, and her chin rose a notch.
 
"Well, then... that's just one more reason for us to find the man who killed Tommy.
 
We not only need to clear me of killing Tommy, but we need to clear Tommy of having been this psychopathic murderer.
 
It's unfair to his memory."
 
Lowering her eyes, she added, "and if the killer
is
 
still out there, we need to get him before he gets me.
 
Reason number three."

"That would be reason number one,"
 
Michael corrected.
 
"And this apartment isn't essential to any of those goals."

She searched his eyes, probing them.
 
Ws she wondering just what hidden motivations might be lying behind them?
 
Did she still mistrust him?
 
He stared back, unflinching, letting her probe as deeply as she wanted, stating without a word that he had nothing to hide.
 
When in fact he did.
 
Then the telephone shrilled, breaking the silence so abruptly that Mary jumped two inches off the floor.

Michael gripped her shoulders
 
"All right?"

"Yeah, fine."

"You want me to...?"

"No, no, I have it."

It rang again, and she went to the stand and picked it up.
 
"Hello?"

Michael saw by the look in her eyes that there was no reply, and instantly, instinctively, slid inside her mind to listen through her ears.

"Hello?" she repeated.
 
"Who is this?"

No answer.
 
She closed her eyes an Michael heard her thoughts.
 
This can't be happening.
 
It can't be...
 
But the silence dragged on.
 
And then there was a single word, drawn out and raspy.

"Soon."

Click.
 
The phone went dead.
 
Mary slammed her receiver down and spun to face Michael.
 
"I'll go wherever you want"

"It was him."
 
He made it a statement, not a question.
 
And he withdrew from her mind, feeling guilty about having broken his earlier promise to her.

She faced him and nodded.
 
"It's almost a relief, in a way.
 
I didn't want to believe it was Tommy anyway.
 
It's going to be twice as satisfying to bring this bastard down, knowing he tried to make it look as if sweet little Tommy was responsible for his crimes."
 
She was speaking quickly, too quickly, not pausing for a breath between words.
 
"Talk abut speaking ill of the dead.
 
Bad enough that he murdered Tommy, but to go to all that trouble to frame him, to try to ruin his memory like that, is just... is just..."

She'd run out of steam, he thought.
 
Her rapid fire words stopped.
 
She closed her eyes, but the tears came through all the same, and when he pulled her close to him, this time she didn't resist.
 
She seemed to soften in his arms, against his chest, buried her head there and let herself cry.
 
He rubbed her back and shoulders, stroked her hair, wondered at the tightening of his throat and the burning in his eyes.
 
It hurt him to see her in pain, and all he wanted at that moment was to ease her fear and her suffering.

"It's going to be all right, Mary.
 
I'm not going to let anything happen to you.
 
I promise you that.
 
He won't get anywhere near you.
 
You'll be safe with me.
 
I'll keep you safe.
 
Trust me.
 
Believe me, Mary, I won't let him hurt you."

She nodded against him, sniffling.
 
"I do believe you," she whispered.

"Why don't you pack a few things?
 
I'll stow the laptop in the car, then come back in to carry your bags out for you.
 
All right?"

"Okay."
 
She straightened away, looking up at him.

It broke his heart to see her cheeks wet with tears.
 
"Okay," he said again.
 
It was a effort to let her go, but he managed to do so.
 
She went into the bedroom to pack, and he popped the CD-ROM out of the laptop, shut the computer down and folded it shut.
 
Then he slid it into his brown leather satchel and buckled it shut.
 
He grabbed his coat and headed out to his car.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

She waited until he'd stepped outside to all from the bedroom telephone.
 
Her hands were shaking as she punched in the numbers.
 
Her heart and soul and body were at war with her mind, ripping one another to shreds.
 
She felt as if she were stabbing Michael in the heart by making this call.
 
And yet some still small voice in her mind told her that someone, somewhere, ought to know where she was going and how to reach her.

The ringer sounded twice before anyone picked up.
 
"Supernatural Investigations Services, Stormy speaking."

"Hi, this is Mary McLean.
 
I phoned you earlier?"

"Hi Mary.
 
Look, it's too soon to tell you anything yet, but—"

"No, no, it's not that.
 
I just wanted to give you my cell phone number.
 
"I'll be away from the apartment, at Michael Gray's place.
 
So you'll have to reach me on that."

"All right.
 
Shoot."

She glanced out the window.
 
Michael was walking back across the lot toward her door already.
 
So strong, so beautiful and so utterly devoted to her.
 
How could she still suspect him of anything?

She didn't, and that was the truth.
 
She was dead over heels for the guy.
 
It wasn't Michael she didn't trust right now; it was her own judgment.

She recited the number quickly.
 
Stormy read it back, getting the last digit wrong.
 
Mary corrected her.
 
Michael was opening the door.

"Got it?"

"Yes."

"Good."
 
She hung up the phone just as he stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind him.
 
"I'll only be a few more minutes," she called.
 
As quickly as she could, she yanked a suitcase out of her closet, opened it and began tossing clothes inside.
 
As she slammed it shut, she tried to slam the door on her guilty feelings, as well.
 
But that wasn't so easily done.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

Michael's home was not at all what she had expected.
 
She wasn't certain just what she had expected—something that spoke of extreme wealth, she supposed, since he drove a Jaguar and dressed in expensive clothes.
 
The place must be casting him a bundle, but it didn't advertise that fact.
 
It was a beach house.
 
Just one story, not tiny, but not sprawling, either.
 
He took a side road off Route 1, north of Bangor.
 
A few miles later he was pulling into the neat white gravel driveway that would right up to the front doors, which were sliding glass, with heavy drapes behind them.
 
Beyond the house was a beach, more rocks than sand, and plenty of frothing surf.

"This is where you live?"

He nodded.
 
"Only since I came to Maine, looking for you.
 
I found it the first night.
 
I like the ocean."

"So do I."

They got out of the car and he handed his key ring to her.
 
Then he opened the trunk to take out her suitcase, carrying it in one hand and his own case, with the laptop, in the other.
 
Mary reached past him to close the trunk, then walked beside him over the flower-lined path to the door.

"It's the square-headed key," he told her.
 
"The silver one."

She inserted the key in the lock, then slid the doors open and pushed the drapes aside to step in.
 
The place was open and airy, its kitchen and dining room combined in one broad space, two steps down.
 
Beyond them, the living room was two steps lower still, furnished with a brown velour sofa and chairs that looked as inviting as any she'd seen.
 
His coffee and end tables were brass and glass, and another set of sliding doors stood at the far end.
 
She dropped the keys on the table and went to them, pulling the drapes open and then she took in the view.

Steep wooden stairs zigzagged from the back door down to the rocky beach.
 
Not a soul was insight this early in the season.
 
But the sand and the rocks and the waves rolling gently in, one after the other, were a breathtaking sight.
 
An soothing, somehow.

"This place is beautiful."
 
She felt as if she really had found a haven.

"I'm glad you like it."
 
He carried her bas though the living room to a door on the left.
 
"This is the guest room.
 
You'll be it's first occupant."

"I can't imagine why.
 
If I had a friend with a place like this, I'd be here so much they'd get sick of me."
 
She said it with a teasing smile.

"You do have a friend with a place like this," he said.
 
His tone wasn't light or teasing.
 
"And I doubt I'd ever get sick of you."