Diabolical (30 page)

“Susan—”

“Shhhh. I just want you to hold me. Nothing else. Really. I just want to be held.”

Hatcher said nothing. He felt the side of her cheek as she laid her head just below the back of his neck.

“I haven't been with a man since Garrett. And I don't even want that. Honest. If you want me to leave, I will.”

Her breath was hot and moist on his skin. He thought about Vivian, about how much he missed her. About how he wanted to love her, tried to, even, but couldn't. And about Amy, whom he also had wanted to love, but couldn't—for totally different reasons.

Vivian, who loved him and was dead. Horribly dead. And he knew somehow it was because of him.

Susan was a beautiful woman, mother of his dead brother's child. Vivian's mutilated corpse was still in the morgue. Jesus, what kind of person was he? Anything hinting of sex right now would be disloyal. Despicably so.

A drop of something ran down his back, across his ribs. A tear.

“Susan,” he said.

He felt another drop on his back as she moved her head, then the press of her lips against his skin.

“So many scars,” she said. “So many little scars. I bet you don't even remember where they all came from, do you?”

Hatcher said nothing.

“Just promise me you'll get him back, Jake. Promise me you'll bring my baby back to me.”

Another drop hit his back, then another. He rolled over, took a gentle hold of her shoulders. How could he promise something like that? He had no idea where the boy was. He had only the vaguest knowledge of who took him. He wasn't even sure why. He opened his mouth to tell her that he would do everything he could. That he would give it his all. But he couldn't guarantee anything. He just couldn't.

“I promise,” he said.

She closed her eyes, squeezing out tears, and let out a sob that sounded like a cough. “You must think I'm terrible. Throwing myself at you like this. It's not what you think. It's not that I don't know you won't try your hardest.”

“I don't think that.”

“It's just . . . I'm so lonely, Jake. I've been so alone since your brother. And you're so much like him. So strong. Yet so caring. I trust you. I don't trust anyone. But I trust you. That makes me a horrible person.”

Hatcher dipped his face toward her, put the curl of his knuckle under her chin and forced her to look at him. “That's why I think you should go get dressed. I don't want to take advantage of you.”

Susan tilted her head, let out a laugh that shook loose another few tears. She wiped them from her eyes with the back of her hand.

“You take advantage of me? I really am a horrible person.” Hatcher smiled and looked down at the mattress. “No. Ridiculous, maybe. For thinking that.”

“Thank you. For promising, I mean. I know you can't really . . . it was just nice to hear it. Reassuring.”

Leaning forward, she kissed him on his forehead, ran her fingers down the side of his face in a gentle caress. When he looked up, she peered down into his eyes, told him she was sorry, so very sorry, and dropped her mouth onto his. He felt her tongue barge past his lips, tasted her honeylike sweetness.

Within seconds he was inside of her, straining to go deeper, ever deeper, squeezing the curves of her flesh against his, gnawing at the rubbery bump of her nipple, cramming the sprawl of eternity, every bit that would fit, into a series of guilt-ridden instants that made forever seem like no time at all.

He woke a bit disoriented. Susan was curled against him, her head on his chest. She stirred as he raised his head, looking around. The room was dark. He'd heard a noise.

He heard it again. Some kind of digitized voice.

“It's somebody's phone,” Susan said, sounding half asleep.

The room was draped in shadow. A few stretches of silvery moonlight rendered swaths of it semi-visible in a lugubrious blue monochrome. Across the room, he could see a blinking red light.

Hatcher slid out from under her, made his way around the bed. It was Fernandez's cell. He picked it up, pressed a few buttons until the screen lit up. The message that popped up said there was an incoming text.

“Everything okay?”

Hatcher glanced over. Susan was sitting up in bed, her silhouette barely perceptible.

“Yeah.”

He thumbed the screen until he found his way to the text.

The caller ID gave a number, not a name. Hatcher thought for a moment, then fumbled his way to a screen keyboard. The typing was slow, but he realized the phone tried to make it easier by finishing words for him.

He pressed Send, then waited. Seconds stretched into a couple of minutes. Nothing.

“Are you sure everything's okay?” Susan asked. “Does it have something to do with Isaac?”

“No. Not directly.”

A long pause. Hatcher could feel her eyes reaching through the darkness.

“Are you coming back to bed?”

Her voice sounded a bit shaky. Hatcher realized she must be an emotional wreck. Her infant son was missing. The boy's father was dead, and she'd just slept with his brother. She had no one to lean on. No one else but him. Was that why she'd done it? Did that make him even more of a creep?

“You think what we did was wrong, don't you?”

Hatcher made his way back to the bed, rolled gently onto it.

“I think seeking comfort in a crisis is something people do.”

Meaningless, he knew. The type of pablum intended to gloss over an issue. But it was the best he could muster under the circumstances without just plain lying. And he didn't want to do that.

“Is that what that was to you? A form of charity?”

“No,” he said, realizing that, at least, was true. “I needed it.”

She seemed to consider his words for quite a while. Then reached out to touch him. “You're a good man, Jacob Hatcher.”

He rubbed her arm gently, thinking,
I wonder if you'd say that if you knew.

The phone indicated it was after nine p.m. He glanced at it again as Susan took it from him, then reached across his body and placed it on the nightstand next to him. With a firm hand she pressed him down onto the bed and pulled close, raising his arm over her head to lay her cheek on him and intertwining her fingers through his.

“You're getting closer, aren't you?”

“It's hard to say. Maybe.”

“If anyone can find him, you can. You found me, didn't you?”

Hatcher listened to those words repeat themselves in his head. It was true, he did find her. But not without help.

“That name,” he said. “Nora Henruss. When did you use it?”

“What do you mean?”

“When I met you at the diner, you said you hadn't used that name in months. When was the last time?”

“I used it to rent an apartment, right before Isaac was born.”

“Why did you stop?”

“Because I had to show them ID at the hospital. Give them a Social Security number. And my address.”

“You were that paranoid?”

“I was a little paranoid. But I almost stayed put anyway. But then I got a call from my doctor's office. His secretary wanted to know if I'd gotten the flowers from my sister. The florist tried to deliver them to the hospital.”

“But she didn't send any flowers.”

“No. Fortunately, I never told my sister where I was, other than on the West Coast. And I had given the hospital a phony address. But it spooked me. So I moved. Switched phones. Covered my tracks to be safe. Changed names again. Found this sublet. I pay in cash. Cable and electric included.”

Smart gal, Hatcher thought. Good instincts. Too bad he'd been stupid enough to lead them right to her.

But something about that was bothering him, something just out of reach. His thoughts circled it, trying to close in, but before they could pounce into the brush and drag it out, that digital voice droned out the brand of the phone again.

Another text. Hatcher pressed his way through the screen until it popped up.

“You have to go, don't you?”

Hatcher glanced over to Susan. Her body caught the glow from the phone, giving her an artistic, vaguely pornographic look, like a centerfold. He suddenly found himself wishing he didn't have to leave her, wishing he could stay and hold that body, touch it, kiss it. Absorb the warmth of it as he tried to create something meaningful with its occupant.

But he had to find her son, and he didn't know how much time he had left, if any. And what did that say about him? Wanting her like this? What kind of man does that? It didn't matter what he said earlier, sleeping with her had been wrong.

He needed to drop thoughts of sex, purge his mind of what happened, and focus on the boy. Sex was a distraction. It clouded judgment, muddied priorities. Stoked emotions that could be hard to control. A boy's life was at stake, and possibly much more. The last thing he needed to be thinking about was sex.

A moment later, another text came through:

 

 

THE SAND DOLLAR INN WAS A FEW BLOCKS FROM THE SANTA Monica Pier. It was an enclosed square of single-story strips, a dozen rooms per building, rimming a motor court. The most prominent feature of the drive-through entry was a large Coke machine.

Hatcher pulled into the parking lot of a fast-food place across the street. He watched the entry for a while, then went inside and ordered a burger and a coffee. He took a seat near the front window.

The burger was a bit soggy. He bolted it, wiped his mouth, then stared through the glass. If she was already there, she would have to leave at some point.

His options were limited. He could go to the room, see what happened. That, he knew would be unwise. His experience with Carnates was that they were ridiculously strong for their size, possessed amazing reflexes, and were all but impossible to injure. They were also almost impossible to resist. Something about their demon-hybrid physiology, their genetic perfection, equipped them to give off overpowering pheromones. That, coupled with their stunning looks, made them especially dangerous. If Deborah or another one of them was in there, in bed, probably naked, he would have a hard time focusing on the task at hand. And if he didn't end up having sex with her, she'd probably just kick his ass.

Yes, that option was definitely unwise, but he still had to fight himself to keep from choosing it.

The other option was to wait her out. Keep a close eye on the entry to the motor court, watch for any nubile women driving out, especially crazy hot ones. The problem with that was he had no idea how long he'd have to sit there. If she really was waiting in bed, she may just go to sleep. That would mean loitering until morning, without really knowing if she was even in there.

He was leaning toward a compromise option. Waiting around for a couple of hours, then, if nothing happened, heading over to look around. Play it by ear.

Something was telegraphing to him that the situation wasn't right. He couldn't pin the feeling down, reduce it to a thought, but it was definitely there. Fernandez must have held back about planning to meet her later. Was that due to loyalty? Or just stress? And could he have gotten ahold of someone after Hatcher left? Told them what happened? Hatcher doubted it. The guy was too busy getting his ear sewn on. And something told Hatcher Officer Fernandez wasn't the best team player to begin with. Maybe the text just meant she'd gone to find him somewhere he normally would be, and couldn't.

But the feeling wouldn't let up as Hatcher peered out the window, watching the bugs flit around the fluorescent glow of the light above the reception window across the street, next to the bright red-and-white vending machine.

“Excuse me, mister.”

Hatcher swung his head at the voice. It was an old man, maybe late seventies, wearing a few too many layers of clothing under a black wool beanie and carrying a shoulder pack. He was unshaven, with leathery, sun-worn skin. Dirt lined the creases in his neck like grout.

The old man hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Is that your PT Cruiser out there? You left the lights on.”

Hatcher looked the man over, waited for some hint of a scam. The hardship story about running out of gas or losing a bus ticket or having a paycheck stolen, followed by the inevitable request for money.

“Just thought you'd like to know,” the man said, before shuffling off.

Strange, Hatcher thought. How could he forget to turn the lights off? He started toward the side entrance, then stopped. The derelict-looking old guy was at the counter, ordering something. Hatcher thought for a moment, made a decision. He headed toward the entrance on the opposite side and pushed through it.

The night air was cool. The sound and smell of traffic rose to greet him as he curled around the door and walked toward the back of the parking lot. He circled around the drive-through lane and stepped beyond the reach of the menu lights into the shadows separating the restaurant's parking lot from an adjoining lot to the rear. He slowed down and walked until he found a decent vantage point that would let him see past the edge of the building to where his car was parked. The front of the car was dark. No lights. The homeless guy had lied.

Before he could react, he heard the cock of a weapon behind him. A flash of red caused him to flinch and raise a hand to protect his eyes. He looked down at his chest, saw a single red dot. Front and back. They weren't taking any chances.