Count to Ten (54 page)
Mia smiled back. “Me, too.” Then she sobered as Olivia’s smile faded.
“Mia, I’m sorry. I judged when I didn’t understand. I understand better now. And I appreciate you trying to keep me from feeling... shunned. You were right. I was luckier. I wish my mother were alive for me to tell her so.” She stood up. “I’m going to get a hotel room and go to sleep. I pulled a double shift before I got here.”
“I’d offer to let you stay with us, but we’re still in a hotel, too,” Reed said.
“It’s all right. Your doctor has my health records. He’ll redo the typing a week before the scheduled day. Then it’s a done deal. He says the procedure will be done laparoscopic-ally on both of us. I’ll be released in a day or two. You could be home by Christmas.” She looked at Reed. “I assume this meets with your approval.”
Reed’s nod was shaky. “It does. Thank you.”
Then she was gone, leaving Mia staring after her. She turned to Reed, her eyes wet. “You did this for me.”
“I tried. I didn’t think she’d agree.”
“The first day we met, you gave me your umbrella.”
His lips curved. “I remember.”
“Today you gave me back my life. An important part of if, anyway.” But not all, she realized.
Not anymore.
She was more than a cop. She had a cat. And a kid. And a man who sat looking at her as if he’d never let her go. “How can I thank you for that?”
His dark eyes gleamed. “I think we can come up with something.”
Sunday, August 12, 9:25 A.M.
S
top it, Reed.” Mia pushed his hand from its groping quest. “Look.”
“I was trying,” he grumbled.
“I meant look at the
news.
Lynn Pope from
Chicago on the Town
told me not to miss this morning’s show.”
With a sigh for the morning sex that was not to be, Reed sat up in bed and put his arm around Mia’s shoulders. She leaned against him easily now, but the thrill was still brand-new. As was the gratitude he experienced every time he woke up to her face.
She was a phenomenal woman. A good cop. She’d returned to duty from her surgery after only four months. Her first day back he’d watched her strap on her holster, fear clutching his heart, but he’d said nothing. In the first week she and Abe Reagan had put away two murderers. Now he watched every day as she strapped on the holster and fear still clutched his heart. But she was a good cop, even better now with the added appreciation of her own mortality. She was careful. She had too much to lose not to be. She’d have to watch her health and take her meds for the rest of her life, but she
had
a life and for that Olivia Sutherland was on their permanent Christmas list.
Mia was a good mom, which he knew she’d be, but he knew it surprised the hell out her. Jeremy was thriving, having found an affinity for soccer. Mia was training him for the peewee leagues. But he still found time to watch the History Channel.
She wasn’t a daughter anymore. Annabelle Mitchell had been incensed that Mia had told “lies” about Bobby when she’d been negotiating for Jeremy’s release. And “when every cop could hear every word from her wire,” which Reed suspected was the real sin. Not the “lie” but the disclosure, which had not brought the pity Mia had feared. She’d earned far too much respect in her career. She was a good cop.
He kissed the top of Mia’s head. And she was a good wife. On the day of their wedding Beth had informed him it was the first day of spring. It hadn’t been his plan, but it seemed appropriate. Beth thought Christine would approve. Reed agreed.
“What’s this?” he asked as a picture of an awards ceremony filled the screen.
“Lynn Pope was up for the Newscasters Award for the story she did on Bixby and Hope Center. Looks like she won. I hope Wheaton’s watching this from her cell.”
“Not that we’re bitter or anything,” Reed said and she poked him.
The picture changed to Hope Center, an excerpt from the exposé Pope had aired months before. Bixby and Thompson had been determined to test therapy methods that had been rejected by every reputable group, so they’d started Hope Center. Further investigation had shown impropriety in handling state funds as well as kickbacks from pharmaceutical reps who wanted their meds to be exclusively administered. Teachers were fired before they could become suspicious. Then the unforeseen happened and Andrew Kates had brought the spotlight on Bixby’s life’s work.
Pope had tracked Bixby to London where he’d hoped to lie low until excitement from the Kates case had blown over. Then he’d planned to quietly resume his work, but Pope’s story had resulted in the closing of the school and the placement of the kids elsewhere.
“I hope those kids get a chance at real rehabilitation,” Reed said as Pope signed off.
Mia blinked up at him, surprised. “I thought you didn’t believe in rehabilitation.”
He shrugged. “Maybe for some people. It’s worked for Kelsey.”
“But she’s still in.” Parole had been denied once again.
He hugged her close to him. “Next time.”
“Maybe.” Mia shook off her dark mood and crawled from the bed. “But it’s not a day for the blues. Get up and get dressed, Solliday. I can’t be late.” He didn’t move, instead rolling to his side to better watch her get dressed. “Reed, hurry. You know how long it takes you just to pick out your shoes.”
“Shoes are an important accessory. You
won’t
wear boots to the church. Please?”
“No, I bought these.” With a grimace she held up a pair of sexy little sandals with a killer heel. “I’m going to hurt my feet for a kid who won’t even remember it.”
“I’m sure you’ll remind her when she’s old enough,” Reed said dryly, choosing his suit. “It’s not every day you become a godmother, Mia. Suck it up and wear the shoes.”
Mia picked up the photo from her dresser. The infant was wrinkled, but to Mia she was beautiful. Faith Buchanan, Dana’s child. She’d be Aunt Mia to this baby, too. But it was okay, because to Jeremy she’d be Mom. He hadn’t called her that yet, but it was coming. She wasn’t sure what she’d do the first time she heard it. Probably the same thing she did the first time Reed told her he loved her, which was to cry like a baby herself.
“Mia? Are you going to stand there looking in the mirror all day? I need help with my buttons.”
She blinked, unaware that her gaze had lifted to her own reflection. Setting the picture back on the dresser, she quickly worked Reed’s buttons up to his collar, tied his tie, and secured his tie tack. “How did you manage before me?”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “It took me a lot longer to get dressed. Plus I ate my hot dogs dry and slept alone.” He grinned down at her. “My quality of life has drastically improved.”
She had to laugh. “So has mine.”
RITA Award-winning author Karen Rose has always loved books. Jo Marsh from
Little Women
and Nancy Drew were close childhood friends. She was introduced to suspense and horror at the tender age of eight when she accidentally read Poe’s “The Pit and the Pendulum” and was afraid to go to sleep for years, which explains a lot...
After earning her degree in chemical engineering from the University of Maryland, Karen married her high school sweetheart. She started writing when characters started popping up in her head and simply wouldn’t be quiet. Now she enjoys making other people afraid to go to sleep! She lives in sunny Florida with her husband and their daughters.
Karen was honored and totally thrilled to receive the Romance Writers of America’s highest award in 2005—the RITA for Best Romantic Suspense for
I’m Watching You
(Warner Books, 2004).
Visit Karen’s Web site at
www.karenrosebooks.com
for more information on Karen, her books, and upcoming events. She loves to hear from readers, so please contact her at [email protected].
“casper”
did i mention that I live with a ghost
we’ll call her casper
she follows me
everyday floating above my bed when I wake
sitting in the shower soap dish
perched atop my bedroom mirror
staring back at me
her eyes my eyes her eyes
she’s stolen my eyes
my nose my chin
my dad, he’s the one who invited her in
asked her to stay
bribed her with promises of forever
sometimes when he looks at me
he winces
like he sees her
when it’s only me
and i’m willing to bet he wishes
he could make a trade if only for one day
the story goes that casper was perfect
the perfect wife, the perfect mother
the perfect woman
writing poetry with one hand
while cross stitching with the other
Donna Reed had nothin’ on this chick
and that’s why he winces
because me, i’m not perfect
i can’t do geometry
i don’t know the difference between
cross stitch and cross walks.
i’m just the doppleganger
reminding the world of the better version that once was
flitting through my father’s life
almost invisible
her eyes bluer brighter
every day mine fade a little more
every day my purpose less certain
until i wonder who’s the ghost
and who just deserves better
Cristy Carrington
2006
“Rose is making her mark on the suspense genre.”
—
Romantic Times Bookclub Magazine
For an exclusive sneak preview of Karen Rose’s next riveting thriller, just turn the page!
DIE FOR ME
available in mass market Fall 2007.
Philadelphia, Saturday, February 12
T
he first thing that hit Warren Keyes was the smell. Ammonia, disinfectant
...
and something else. What else? Open your eyes, Keyes
. He could hear his own voice echo inside his head and he struggled to lift his eyelids.
Heavy.
They were so heavy, but he fought until they stayed open. It was dark. No. There was a little light. Warren blinked once, than again with more force until a flickering light came into focus.
It was a torch, mounted on the wall. His heart started thudding hard in his chest. The wall was rock. He lifted his eyes. So was the ceiling. I’m in a cave
. His heart began to race.
What the hell is this?
He lunged forward and white hot pain speared down his arms to his back. Gasping, he fell back against something flat and hard.
He was tied.
Oh God
. His hands and feet were tied. And he was naked.
Trapped
. Fear rose from his belly, clawing his insides. He twisted and pulled like a wild animal, then fell back again, panting, tasting the disinfectant as he sucked in air. He stilled, drawing deep breaths through his nose to control his breathing. Disinfectant and...
His breath hitched as he recognized the odor under the disinfectant. Something dead. Rotting.
Something died here
. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to panic.
This isn’t happening. This is just a dream, a nightmare. In a minute I’ll wake up
.
But he wasn’t dreaming. This, whatever it was, was real. He was stretched out on a board on a slight incline, his wrists tied together and his arms stretched up and behind his head.
Why?
He tried to think, to remember. There was something...a picture in his mind, just beyond his reach. He strained for the memory and realized his head ached...He winced as the pain sent little black spots dancing across his eyes. God, it was like a really bad hangover. But he hadn’t been drinking. Had he?
Coffee
. He remembered drinking coffee, his hands closing around the cup to get warm. He’d been cold. He’d been outside.
Running.
Why was he running? Slowly he rotated his wrists, feeling his raw skin burn, reaching until the tips of his fingers touched rope. He felt the smallest degree of hope. Rope was better than handcuffs. He could escape from rope.
“So you’re finally awake.”
The voice came from behind him and he craned his neck, trying to see. Then he remembered and the pressure on his chest lessened a fraction. It was a movie.
I’m an actor and we were making a movie
. A history documentary. He’d been running with...With what? He grimaced, focusing.
A sword, that’s it
. He’d been in medieval costume, a knight with a helmet and shield...even chain mail, for God’s sake. The entire scene came back now. He’d changed his clothes, even his underwear for some scratchy, shapeless burlap that irritated his crotch. He’d had a sword, a really big, heavy sword that took all his strength to carry as he ran through the woods outside Munch’s studio, yelling at the top of his lungs. He’d felt like a damn idiot, but he’d done it all because it was in the damn script.
But this
, he jerked at the ropes again with no success,
this was
not
in the script.
“Munch.” Warren’s voice was thick, grating on his dry throat. “What the hell is this?”
Ed Munch appeared to his left. “I didn’t think you’d ever wake up.”
Warren blinked as the dim light from the torch flickered across the man’s face. His heart skipped a beat. Munch had changed. Before he’d been old, shoulders stooped. White hair and a trim mustache. Warren swallowed, his breath shallow. Now Munch stood straight. His mustache was gone and his hair was no longer white.
Munch wasn’t old.
Dread coiled in his gut, seething and roiling. The deal was five hundred for the documentary. Cash if he came that day. Warren had been suspicious—it was a lot of money for a history documentary they’d show on PBS if he was lucky. But he’d agreed. One odd old man was no threat.
But Munch wasn’t old.
Bile rose, choking him.
What have I done?
Close on the heels of that question came the next, more terrifying.
What will he do to me?
“Who are you?” Warren croaked out and Munch held a bottle of water to his lips. Warren pulled away, but Munch grabbed his chin with surprising strength. His dark eyes narrowed and fear made Warren freeze.
“It’s just water this time,” Munch ground out. “Drink it.”
Warren spat the mouthful of water back in the man’s face and held himself rigid when Munch raised his fist. But the fist lowered and Munch shrugged.
“You’ll drink eventually. I need your throat moist.”
Warren licked his lips. “Why?”
He disappeared behind him again and Warren could hear something rolling. A video camera, Warren saw when Munch rolled it past him, stopping about five feet away. The camera was pointing straight at his face. “Why?” Warren repeated, louder.
Munch peered through the lens and stepped back. “Because I need you to scream.” He lifted a brow, his expression surreally bland. “They all screamed. So will you.”
Horror bubbled up and Warren fought it back.
Stay calm. You’ll never get away if you don’t stay calm
. Munch was insane.
Treat him nice and maybe you can talk your way out of this.
He made his lips curve. “Look, Munch, this isn’t really my thing, y’know? I’m a pretty straightforward guy. Let me go and we’ll call it even. You can keep the sword fight scenes I did already at no charge.”
Munch just looked at him, his expression still bland. “I never planned to pay you anyway.” He disappeared again and reappeared, pushing another video camera on wheels. This one he placed to Warren’s right.
He planned all this out
, Warren thought,
and dammit, I fell for it
. He remembered the coffee, remembered Munch’s insistence that he drink it.
It’s just water this time.
Rage geysered up inside him, momentarily eclipsing the fear. “You drugged me, you fucking pervert,” he hissed, then filled his lungs with air. “
Help! Somebody help me!
” he yelled it as loud as he could, but the hoarse sound from his throat was pathetically useless.
Munch said nothing, just set up a third camera on a boom so that it pointed down. Every movement was methodical, precise. Unhurried. Unconcerned. Unafraid.
And then Warren knew nobody could hear him. The hot rage drained away, leaving only fear, cold and absolute. Warren’s voice shook. There had to be something...some way out. Something he could say. Do. Offer. Beg. He’d beg. “Please, Munch, I’ll do anything...” His words trailed away as Munch’s words replayed in his mind.
They all screamed. Ed Munch
. Warren closed his eyes. His chest constricted, despair making it difficult to breathe. “Munch isn’t your real name. Edvard Munch, the artist.” The painting of a ghoulish figure clutching its face in agony flashed into his mind. “
The Scream
.”
“Actually, it’s pronounced ‘Moonk,’ not ‘Munch,’ but nobody ever gets it right. Nobody gets the details right,” he added in a disgusted voice.
Details. The man had been all about details earlier, frowning when Warren argued against the scratchy underwear. “Who’s gonna know?” he’d asked and Munch’s face had darkened, ominously now Warren realized. “I’ll know,” he’d said coldly. “Just do it.” The sword had been real, too.
I should have used it on the bastard when I had the chance
.
“Authenticity,” Warren murmured, repeating what he’d thought had been the ramblings of a crazy old man.
Munch nodded. “Now you understand.”
“What will you do?” His own voice was eerily calm.
One corner of Munch’s mouth lifted. “You’ll see soon enough.”
Warren dragged in each breath. His heart was pounding so hard. “Please.
Please
, I’ll do anything. Just let me go.”
Munch said nothing. A moment later he pushed another cart with a television just beyond the camera at his feet. He fiddled with the switches on a box below, checking the angle and focus of each camera with calm precision.
“You won’t get away with this,” Warren said desperately, once again pulling at the ropes, struggling until his wrists burned and his arms strained in their sockets. He fell back against the hard board, panting. And still tied. The ropes were thick, the knots unyielding. He would not break free.
Munch didn’t turn around, just kept checking the cameras methodically. “That’s what all the others said. But I have, and I will continue to do so until I am finished.”
Others.
There had been others. The smell of death was all around, mocking him. Others had died here. He would die here, too.
No, please
. He had too much left to do and all the things he’d never done, all the words he’d never said filled his mind. From somewhere deep inside him, courage rallied. He lifted his chin. “My friends will come looking for me. I told my girlfriend I was meeting you.”
Finished with the cameras, Munch turned. His eyes held a contempt that said he knew it was a last, desperate bluff. “No, you didn’t. You told your girlfriend you were meeting a friend to help him read lines. You told me so when we met this afternoon. You said this money would pay for a surprise for her birthday. You wanted it to stay a secret. It was the reason I chose you.” He lifted one shoulder. “Plus, you fit the suit. Not everyone can wear chain mail correctly. So no one will be looking for you, Mr. Keyes. And if they do, they’ll never find you. Accept it—you belong to me.”
Everything inside him went deathly still. It was true. He had told Munch the money was for a surprise for Sherry. And he’d told none of his friends about the part because he didn’t want them horning in on his chances. Nobody knew where he was. Nobody would come to save him. He thought of Sherry, of his mom and dad, of everyone he cared about and knew he’d never see any of them again. They’d wonder where he was. His mother would cry. A sob rose in his throat. “You bastard,” he whispered. “I hate you.”
One side of Munch’s mouth quirked, but his eyes lit up with an amusement that was more terrifying than his smile. “The others said that, too.” He shoved the water bottle at Warren’s mouth again, pinching his nose until he gasped for air. Wildly Warren fought, but Munch forced the water down. “Now, Mr. Keyes, we begin. Don’t forget to scream.”