Desperate to the Max (24 page)

It was a tad past midnight. For dinner, she’d eaten two Whopper Juniors, a large fry, and a milkshake. When she’d gotten home, cursing Bethany, she’d had to lie flat on the bed to ease her pants off. Bending over was impossible. She’d fallen asleep in her jacket, blouse and underwear, but woke early enough to be sure she was dressed in her thickest, longest sleep shirt, in case Witt decided to stop by again. This time she told herself there would be no explicit Ram scenarios and no explicit rag rug scenarios in the middle of the floor.

So far, Witt had left only a message, and the only thing it said was, “Call me. I’ll leave my cell on. What were you and my mother doing at Virginia’s? And why the hell did you say your name was Helen on the message?” Both were legitimate questions, of course, but the tone was intended to intimidate, and she wasn’t easily intimidated. She’d give him a piece of her mind—

The phone rang. Witt wouldn’t be stupid enough to call after midnight. She picked up. “Hi, this is Helen. What can I do for you tonight?” came out as automatically as breathing.

For the next two hours, Max lay in the dark and let herself be tied up, massaged, stripped, used, abused, pleasured, violated, adored, humiliated, and worshipped. It takes all kinds. But no Achilles. No one who might be Freddy either. His parents probably would have strung him up by his heels if they’d seen a 900 number on their phone bill.

She was getting tired, the nap having long since worn off. Phone sex had definitely gotten boring. How did the girls do it night after night? She had a mind to call one up herself and ask.

The phone rang again. One more call, then her shift would be over. Thank God. “Hi, this is Helen.” She was so tired, and she still felt sick from those—

“I thought about you all night, Helen.”

Max would know that voice anywhere, the slight grate, the needy edge, the desperate desire.

“Achilles,” she said on the outbreath, “God, Achilles,” clearly enunciating so that if Witt was listening, he would know this was the one. All traces of fatigue were wiped from her body and her mind. Bethany sizzled inside her, seeped into her voice. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you call last night? I’m dying without you here to touch me.”

“I’ve been thinking about you. But I wanted to wait for the right moment.”

“Never make me wait.”

“So impatient. Tonight, I’m going to make you so hot, you’ll beg me to come to you wherever you are.”

Yes, yes. If she could trick him into it, she would in a shot. “You know it’s not allowed.”

“Let’s not fight. I’ve got a surprise.”

“What?” She punctuated with a moan, heard an answering rasp in his breath.

“I want you to pretend you’re a little girl.” She thought she heard him lick his lips. “
My
little girl.”

Bugs crawled beneath the surface of her skin. Even Bethany, deep inside, recoiled. For very different reasons, they both did what Achilles asked. “I’m your little girl.”

“Are you afraid of me, my love?”

Terrified. “Do you want me to be afraid?”

“Yes, oh yes. I like it when you’re so scared, you almost wet your panties.”

She curled into a little ball and clutched the phone to her ear. She moaned with fear. He heard it. His breathing quickened.

“You’re hiding from me, aren’t you?”

She closed her eyes. Her voice changed, higher, sweeter, almost childlike. “I’m in the closet. I always hide in the closet when you’re mad.”

“I know you’re in there. I can’t wait to punish you. You know how much you want Daddy to punish his little girl.”

She wanted to cover her ears, pull the pillow over her head, and pretend she was anywhere but here. Or hiding in the closet. She prayed they’d trace the call soon, prayed Witt would rescue her. Then she played Achilles’ game. “I know. You want me to touch your thingie.”

“I’m going to make you use your mouth. That’s how little girls get punished for having birthday parties when their daddy tells them not to.”

“It wasn’t a party, Daddy. It was just two of my friends.”

He’d never been one to listen to explanations. “Get out here and undo my pajamas.”

Max closed her eyes and crawled out of the closet. It was like a nightmare playing itself out behind her lids. Her cheeks were wet, her nose runny, and then her mouth was full with the salty taste of him. She choked.

“Baby doesn’t like that, does she? Do it anyway. Because you love me.”

She wanted to scream. She wanted to die. She wanted to bite it off. She
was
the little girl in his fantasy.

His hand against the back of her head, his fingers clutched, pulling on her roots. His short, curly hair scratched her nose. He smelled of soap.

“Oh yeah, just like that. I’ll teach you not to be bad.” He groaned. “Oh God, I’ll teach you to be the best.”

Her eyes burned with her tears. Her nose clogged. She couldn’t breathe. The size of him in her mouth would surely kill her, suffocate her. Please stop, please stop, please—

He growled, cursed, finished with a harsh yowl that reverberated down to her toes, and left her bones hollow.

“Oh baby, that was the best. Wasn’t that the best?” His voice was low, lazy, satisfied. He chuckled. “Did you come?”

She swiped at her eyes, sniffed. “Did you want me to?”

“I bet you’re the wettest you’ve ever been.”

“I’m the wettest I’ve ever been,” she murmured because he told her to. She didn’t know how to stop him telling her what to do. She’d never known.

“Touch yourself.”

“Okay.”

“Feel your wet cunt, you stupid bitch.”

She choked off a cry, clamped her legs shut against him, and sniffed so that she could breathe. “I am. I swear I am.”

“Afraid I’m going to punish you again?”

She pulled the covers over her head as if that would make his voice go away. “Yes,” came her strangled whisper.

“Are you going to dream of me, tonight?”

“I always dream about you.” He was her worst nightmare.

“Then say good night, my love.”

“Good night.”

“Sweet dreams.” He paused. “Max.”

Jesus Christ.

He knew who she was.

* * * * *

Max scrambled from the bed and dug in her purse where she’d dumped it on the chair. Dammit, dammit, she’d left Witt’s cell phone in the car.

She couldn’t call on her own phone. McKaverty and Schulz might still be recording. She grabbed her pants from the floor, tugged them on, slammed into her shoes, then ran down the steps to her front door. She hadn’t remembered picking them up, but her car keys were in her hand. She fumbled with the door handle, finally managing to yank it open.

In the glovebox, she found her savior.

She called Witt’s house. She almost cried when she heard his voice on the message. Damn. He wasn’t home. Then she remembered he’d said he leave his cell phone on, his other one, since he’d given her his extra. She hit the speed-dial with a shaking finger.

“Long here.”

“Where are you?”

He didn’t ask who it was. “Knee deep in shit and garbage. Wanna join me?”

He was being literal, she was sure. He was probably on a big case. Hadn’t there been mention on the news of digging in some dump for the body of a missing woman? He’d presumably been there all day, too, since he hadn’t called. She pulled herself together, breathed in through her nose and exhaled through her mouth, then asked politely, “You okay, Witt?”

“You coming to my place to spend what’s left of the night?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not okay.”

The sound of his voice soothed her fractured nerves, her panic receded, and the idea of crawling into bed next to him, falling asleep in his arms, was the most important thing in the world. “Don’t be kidding around. It’s late. I have to tell you something.”

His sigh was audible over the crackle of the cell phone and the background noise of voices, shouts, and the grinding of machinery. “Kinda figured it wasn’t a social call. God forbid you should call ‘cause you wanna hear my voice.”

That was exactly why she’d called, but she wouldn’t tell
him
that. “You’re whining. It doesn’t become you.”

“Busted.” Then he went on before she could add anything. “Suppose you wanted to tell me that guy called. Achilles.”

He was reading her mind again. “How’d you know?”

“Let’s see,” he paused. “It’s after two in the morning. You spent two hours on the phone talking sex.” He sucked in a breath. “Christ. Maybe you’re calling ‘cause you’re horny and you want me to talk you through it.”

She wanted to cry. She wanted him to hold her. She wanted to stop being so afraid. “Will you quit? This is important.”

He huffed over the connection. “Achilles is the logical conclusion, Max.”

“You have to call your cop friends and make sure they traced it.”

Another long suffering sigh. “They’re taking care of it. They don’t need me to remind them.”

“But—”

“Go to sleep, Max. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know if they found him.”

“Witt. There’s something else.”

She could almost hear him rolling his eyes. “What?”

“He called me Max.”

“Jesus H. Christ.”

That’s what she’d said. “I think he probably knew that first night.”

“I’m sending a patrol car by. Keep your doors locked.”

“I’m not scared.” She punched the lock on her car door and wondered how the hell she was going to get back inside her apartment safely.

“Just do what I tell you. I’d come if I could, but I can’t.”

He had a job to do. Debbie Doodoo had probably hated that she always came in second. Max didn’t like his dictatorial tone either, but she let it go for the sake of more important matters. “Don’t you get it, Witt? This means Achilles had to be the one who killed her.” Like she’d tried telling him in the beginning. “No one else would even know she was dead.”

“That doesn’t explain how he knows who
you
are. I’m gonna have that patrol car sit outside your house all night long.”

She’d rather have had him there. She’d even share something, the way he wanted her to. She’d even have sex with him. Again. “Achilles isn’t ready to do anything yet. He’s still wanting to play.” Like a cat with a mouse.

She heard shouting, someone calling his name. “I gotta go.” He didn’t need to say they’d found something. “Wave out the window when the car comes so they know you’re okay. Call you in the morning. Don’t do anything stupid, Max.”

Then he was gone.

She wondered if she should have told him Achilles and Bud Traynor were one in the same.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Max made it back inside the old Victorian. The patrol car came. Max waved. It stayed. Cops would do anything if another cop asked them to. They took care of their own. She flopped back against the pillow and closed her eyes.

She’d get him. In the morning, they’d have those calls traced to Traynor’s phone. Then the bastard would be all hers.

“Sleep, perchance to dream,” Cameron whispered in the darkness above her.

“I don’t want to dream.” She’d had enough of dreams. Now she wanted to lay awake planning every detail of Bud Traynor’s downfall. The panic had receded, even if it wasn’t Witt in that patrol car outside. She could think now, plan.

“You’re afraid to dream.”

“Wouldn’t you be?” If he had to see a woman die, had to relive a child’s terror.

“She wasn’t exactly a child in your dreams, was she?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Liar. She did know. Exactly. He was talking about the phone call. He was talking about the dream she’d had almost two months ago. The dream about Bud Traynor and his daughter, Wendy. The closet dream. The dream Achilles had repeated almost verbatim.

Bud had punished his daughter for having a birthday party. The bastard hadn’t even wanted her to celebrate her birthday. Wendy had had two friends over despite his object— Max gasped.

“What is it?”

From the tension in his voice, Max knew Cameron had already read her mind. He still wanted the words. “The two friends were Bethany and Jada.” She bit her lip. “Jada was the one who told Bud.”

They’d never been friends again. Wendy, Jada, and Bethany had lived their pain alone.

Dear God, from the moment she’d first dreamed Wendy’s death, everything had been connected. With Bud Traynor at the center.

“How did he know it was me on the phone?” He had known that first night, as she’d told Witt, she was almost sure. The answer was easy. Traynor was the devil, and he knew everything, especially knew the right words to turn her inside out and upside down. As if remnants of his daughter’s spirit still lived in her along with Bethany.

“He wants you to think that. He wants you to believe he’s the devil incarnate. Because he knows it’ll weaken you. But he’s just a man. And you can beat him, Max.”

“I know I can.” But how?

“There’s a clue in Bethany’s dream, the first one. Find it.”

“She didn’t even see who killed her.”

“Take control of the dream and make her turn around.”

The idea didn’t terrify her nearly as much as it once had.

Cameron kept talking. She barely listened. His voice in the quiet of night was hypnotic. She felt herself falling, falling, falling. Like Alice down the rabbit hole. Where she ends up, nobody knows.

Max ended up in Bethany’s dream. The house, the scent of peaches, the smoothness of freshly bathed skin, the taste of chocolate, the sounds of pleasure.

All the while, Max stood in the background, not a participant, but a watcher, an observer.

“Are you wet?”

“God, yes.”

“Put a finger inside yourself. Does it feel good? Come for me. I want to hear you come.”

Bethany cried out. Max knew it was because he wanted her to as much as her own orgasmic delight.

“I want to see you, Helen. Now. Tonight.”

Ah yes, this was when Bethany got frightened. The fear was there in her voice, the clenching of her fists. “You know we can’t do that.”

“I can’t stand it anymore. No one has to know.”