Love is Murder (25 page)

Crystal stayed on her knees and laid down more return fire as Doc joined her, making sure that Gabe—who was an even bigger man than Johnny—had a running start.

“You my…free ride?” Johnny managed weakly as Gabe hefted him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and double-timed it away from the enemy fire.

“Always said that you former Force Recon Marines were nothin’ but a bunch of slackers,” Gabe grumbled over the concern in his voice. “Just hang on, bud. God knows you’re not worth the effort, but we’re gettin’ your sorry ass outta here.”

“Countin’ on it, Angel Boy,” Johnny mumbled then passed out cold.

“Let’s boogie.” Doc covered Crystal as she backed away, then quickly turned and followed her.

* * *

Johnny hung like a lifeless lump over Gabe’s shoulder as the big man pushed his way through the trees, vines and undergrowth. Crystal was hardly aware of the thick, dense foliage slicing tiny cuts in her arms and across her face as they hauled ass through the jungle. All she could think about was her husband as she alternately stopped and took a knee, returned the fire that kept dogging them, then jumped up and pressed on toward the beach.

The terrain was rough; the plants and vines grabbed at her feet. She tripped over a tree root and went down hard. She was just pushing to her knees when Doc grasped her backpack from behind and lifted her to her feet like she didn’t weigh any more than a gnat.

“That boat going to be there when we arrive?” she asked breathlessly as she raced alongside him.

“Ever known the Choirboy to let us down?”

Raphael “Choirboy” Mendoza, a native Colombian and charter member of Black Ops., Inc. like Doc, Gabe and Johnny, was their wheelman—in this case their outboard motor man.

“What? What are you doing?” she asked Doc frantically when he stopped beside her.

“Go,” he insisted as he pulled the pin on a frag grenade then winged it as hard as he could behind them.

The grenade had no sooner exploded with a deafening blast than Doc shrugged out of his pack, tore open a pocket and pulled out a Claymore. “Go,” he repeated.

“I’m not leaving you.” She took a knee again and covered him as he set the mine with a trip wire trigger while AK-47 fire lit up with a vengeance behind them.

“That’ll keep ’em guessing,” he said after setting a second mine. “Now scoot.”

They both took off at a run.

She’d lost sight of Gabe and Johnny and was frantic to catch up with them when the first Claymore exploded. At least one bad guy had bought the farm on that one. The others were either hurt or very wary about running blindly after them.

“They’re still on our ass.” Doc grabbed her arm as he ran alongside her. “Let’s double-time it.”

They’d just leaped over a huge, downed tree trunk and, thank God, caught up with Gabe when Crystal heard the roar of an outboard motor.

“Hallelujah!” Doc crowed and peeled ahead of Crystal to help Gabe maneuver Johnny down a steep, dirt embankment that dropped over twenty feet toward the river at a ninety-degree angle.

Crystal scrambled down behind them, digging in her heels as she half skidded, half ran down the vertical drop that ended in the mud of the riverbank, where a flat-bottom boat with a pair of 200 horse outboards plowed up onto the shore.

Their CO, Nate Black himself, was on his knees in the bow of the boat, manning an M-60 machine gun mounted on a tripod.

“Sight for sore eyes, gentlemen,” Gabe yelled above the
chuck-chuck-chuck
of the big gun as Nate peppered the bank with shells to the tune of 550 rounds per minute.

Gabe clambered into the boat and laid Johnny as carefully as he could on the floor. Doc was next aboard. He held out a hand for Crystal and she jumped in. Doc was already on his knees beside Johnny, digging into his medic’s kit when Rafe shifted the twin motors into Reverse, backed away from the shore, then fast-shifted into Forward again and shot down the river.

The M-60 had fallen silent and the threat from the AKs was in the far distance before Doc sat back on his heels. He’d done what he could for Johnny. He’d staunched the blood flow, wrapped his arm close to his ribs to immobilize it and hung an IV that dumped antibiotics and fluid into his body.

Crystal could tell by the look on Doc’s face that the risk to her husband’s life was far from over.

She sat on the floor of the boat, Johnny’s head cradled in her lap. He was too pale. His skin was too cool. And she was scared to death because he had not yet regained consciousness.

“How bad?” She had to yell to be heard above the roar of the twin outboards.

Doc shot Gabe a grim look over the top of her head before he met Crystal’s eyes. “Bad,” he said, knowing he had to level with her. “He needs blood.”

“Then he’s going to get it.” She quickly rolled up her sleeve as the wind whipped her hair around her face and the roar of the outboards tried to drown out her words.

Doc shook his head. “Crystal—”

“He’s going to get it!” she shouted, cutting Doc off midprotest. “I’m O negative. Universal donor.”

“Darlin’, a direct donor to recipient doesn’t always—”

“I’m not going to let him die!” Tears welled up as she frantically reached for Doc’s kit then shoved it into his hands. “
You
are not going to let him die,” she said, pleading, demanding, bargaining for the life of the man she loved.

After a long, hard look, Doc assembled what he needed to attempt the transfusion.

“No promises.” He inserted the needle into her vein and started the process.

“No promises,” she agreed on a whisper that was swept down river by the wind.

She refused, though, absolutely refused to let her hope be swept away, as well.

* * *

Reed awoke to silence. The kind of silence that magnified every little sound and told him he wasn’t alone. The minute scrape of a chair leg on a tile floor. The rustle of clothes. A soft breath close by. The scent of the woman he loved.

Very slowly, he opened his eyes. Closed them against the sharp glare of a white-on-white ceiling, walls and window shades. A monitor blipped softly away beside his bed.

No. Not
his
bed. A hospital bed, he decided, picking up the scent of antiseptic and flowers as he sifted through his memory banks. Oh, right. He remembered. Just to make certain, he tried to move his shoulder.

Very. Bad. Idea.

Lots of pain. Lots of muzzled, distant pain ached and burned and dug into his flesh like a rusty knife. Hurt like hell…but not as bad as when Gabe had hauled him through the jungle then dumped him into the bottom of the boat.

Safe.

Hot damn.

He’d dodged another bullet—figuratively speaking.

A small, warm hand covered his, squeezed. He let out a deep, contented breath.

He’d know her touch anywhere.

When he opened his eyes again, it was to see his wife’s beautiful face. Her soft green eyes were misted with tears.

“Hey, Tink,” he croaked and smiled for her because she looked so fragile he was afraid she might break.

“Hey,” she whispered back, her own smile tremulous. “You had me worried, cowboy,” she confessed.

“I need your mouth,” he said, suddenly consumed by a deep, demanding need to touch and taste and assure them both that he was alive.

He watched her eyes warm as she stood up on tiptoe then leaned in and kissed him.

Better. So much better.

He lifted a hand to brush a tear from her cheek. “You remember what you said to me the first time we met?”

“Get lost?” Her grin held as much relief as it did amusement.

“Okay, I think that was the
second
time. The
first
time, you said, ‘I’m getting a little tired of you dogging my tail, cowboy.’��

She smiled, lowered the side rail then climbed carefully into the bed beside him. “And you said something to the tune of, ‘You’re not one of those girl-on-girl types, are you?’”

He lifted his good arm and made room for her to snuggle up close—right where she belonged. “Well, you
did
find me awfully easy to resist. What else was I supposed to think?”

“The fact that I said I didn’t like you?
That
didn’t do it for you? Or that I told you, you were too vain, too pretty and too annoying?”

“And yet—” contented, he dropped a kiss on the top of her head “—I got you where I wanted you, didn’t I?”

She slid her leg across his thighs and careful of his IV, wrapped her arm around his waist. “Yeah. In bed.”

He breathed deep, loving the scent of her and the lush softness of her body pressed against his. “You saved my bacon, Tink.” He swallowed a knot of emotion that suddenly clogged his throat. “Thought I was done for back there.”

“Done?” Her voice was barely a whisper as she snuggled even closer. “Not a chance. I’m so not through with you yet.”

“Even though I’m too vain, too pretty and too annoying?”

“Yeah. Even though,” she said and he could hear the hours of worry slowly leach out of her voice right along with the tension that eased from her body. “Besides, you’ve got my blood in your veins now. I have high hopes it’ll straighten you out.”

He tucked his chin and scowled down at her. “
Your
blood?”

She filled him in on the midriver transfusion that had ultimately saved his life.

He was stunned. And humbled. And…
damn,
he loved this woman.

“Well, I guess that explains why I woke up feeling this driving urge to dye my hair red, get my ears pierced and steal your latest Victoria’s Secret catalog.”

She laughed. “You
always
steal that catalog.”

“True, but I’ve never had a yen to order from it before.”

She levered herself up on an elbow and grinned down at him. “Shut up, Reed,” she whispered softly. “Just…shut up.”

And then she kissed him with all the love any man could hope for.

* * * * *

THE NUMBER OF MAN

J.T. Ellison

Eerie to the max. Hitchcock would have loved the creepy, delusional, manipulative character of Michael. ~SB

It began in a single moment, the briefest of connections. She, in pigtails, a miniature towheaded autocrat, ruling the playground as if it were her kingdom. He, sitting on the swings, the new boy, watching her cross the playground toward him, shoulders squared, prepared for battle. He was an outsider, an unknown, and therefore dangerous, and she needed to determine his loyalties. Only eight, he had been at the receiving end of this conversation several times; his mother wasn’t the most upright woman, had a tendency to follow her latest boyfriend when her previous love discarded her.

Imperious Caitlyn hadn’t stopped walking, just drove her shoulder into his and laughed as he lost his grip on the swing and toppled over backward.

“What’s your name?��

“Michael.”

Caitlyn had looked at him, and he squirmed. He knew he was dirty. It was inside him, and no amount of scrubbing would loosen its hold on his soul.

Her blue eyes pierced him, some ineffable movements behind the lashes as she decided his fate.

At long last, she nodded, curt as a judge.

“Fine. You can stay on the swings. We’re going to play kickball.” She turned, and her minions followed. He swore he heard Caitlyn whisper, “Keep away from me, Michael.”

He tried so very hard to listen.

* * *

Twenty years later, Michael stood in another lot, waiting for Caitlyn to notice him. He’d been waiting for a month, ever since he’d bumped into her accidentally. He, on his way to work. She, leaving hers after a hard day. Their footsteps tapped in time, echoing through the still night, sneakers and stilettos crossing the asphalt. Distracted by his earbuds, he’d nearly missed her. A flicker of a shadow caught his attention, he raised his head—and there she was. Their eyes met across the darkened parking lot, this same, perfect expanse. His breath came short. Panic, fear and love all mingled together in his thoughts. She was still perfect. He was lost again.

He waited for her every night after that, from the shadows, not wanting to frighten her. He was shy, so afraid to approach her. If she could only see him like she did when they were eight: just a scared young boy. She was too famous now, too important. She was always on her guard, would never let another being see inside her soul.

The Pixies screamed in his ears, words of numbers, of man and beast and heavens, and the death of all things, and he sang the chorus in his mind, knowing exactly what the song was telling him. The iPod was set to shuffle, and it was beyond fitting that this song, his anthem, had come on when he hit the power button.

Traffic had been a nightmare tonight, aggravated by the teasing rains. He never thought he’d make it, but he did. Breath catching in his chest, heart pounding from the sudden exercise, he waited in the usual spot. Rain trickled down his forehead, running into his mouth, pooling in the collar of his shirt. He removed the earbuds, listened to the staccato snapping grow closer.

She passed right by him, didn’t see him hovering in the gloom behind her car. He’d found that spot was ideal for watching.
Do it, Michael. Let her see you. Start your life together.

He stood, quietly. He didn’t want to startle her, send her crashing to her car in a panic. She stopped, realizing she wasn’t alone, and he froze. He was still deep in the shadows, unable to be seen, wanting so badly for her to know he was there.

Just talk to her, Michael. Just clear your throat and say hello.

He could see the thoughts run through her mind, could tell when she decided she’d been imagining things. But she covered the rest of the steps to her car quickly and locked the doors of her BMW.

He let her go. She’d be back tomorrow night. He would try again.

* * *

“I’m Caitlyn Kennedy, Channel 9 News. Good night, Huntsville.”

“And you’re smiling, you’re smiling, now look at your notes, and…we’re out.”

Caitlyn Kennedy removed the IFB from her left ear and scratched, pulling on her earlobe, trying to get the underwater sensation to dissipate. Thirty-five minutes plugged into the brain of a disembodied voice was hell on her equilibrium. When her ear finally popped, she set the IFB down on the desk, stood and brushed imaginary lint off her white skirt. The disembodied voice became a series of steps, and a man materialized in front of her. Tom Stryc was their new news director, and she though he was great.

“Hey, Caitie, good job tonight! You’re gonna land the weekday anchor job if you’re not careful.”

“Thank you.” She dimpled a smile at him, and he patted her arm before scooting off to his office.

Tom was breathing life into the station, shaking things up, encouraging the anchors and reporters to stretch themselves, to inject a modicum of personality into their live shots and extended reports. It was Huntsville, after all. The focus was on NASA and anything space related. The rest of their stories relied on crime and human interest, typical hometown news.

The weekend crew bustled about, finishing their tasks. Caitlyn looked around, as content as she could be. Her station, her jumping-off point. This is where she’d make her mark. This was her very own launchpad.

“Caitlyn, phone!”

A tech was standing by the anchor desk, where they actually had a working phone for call-ins. He held the receiver, only mildly annoyed at being interrupted from his shutdown duties. Caitlyn smiled at him, took the phone and set it against her good ear.

“Yes?”

“Caitlyn Kennedy?”

The voice was male, deep, raspy.

“Who is this?” she asked.

The man chuckled. “I’m your biggest fan. I just wanted to let you know that I like the nude toenail polish better. That red is too garish for your coloring.”

And he was gone. Caitlyn looked at the receiver, as if she could see the caller on the other end. Her brow furrowed in puzzlement. She glanced down, looking at her feet. She had on red toenail polish. She thought back, yes, that was it. She’d gotten a pedicure last night, after she got off work.

Great. She’d better tell Tom there was a whack job out there. But first, she went to her tiny cubbyhole office to see what was on deck for tomorrow’s broadcast.

* * *

Twenty years, five months and thirteen days after Michael and Caitie met, they had their first date. It took Michael hours to get up the courage to call, to let Caitlyn know he was in town again, that he wanted to see her. He made a lovely dinner—roast pork tenderloin with a mango chutney, asparagus with a lemon butter reduction and garlic mashed potatoes. He was new to the wine scene, but with some help he’d chosen a Shiraz from Western Australia. The table was set with his grandmother’s china, a lovely bone with etched fleur-de-lis. He’d found them at a pawnshop in Austin, Texas. He’d remembered that etched fleur-de-lis and a small, gray woman who’d say, “This plate is fit for a king,” on those rare special occasions when they used the fine dishes. Before. Before his father died. Before his mother became a trollop. Before the acrid scent of vodka permeated his world.

Now the dishes were used to serve a queen.

When the table was set, the candles lit, the wine poured into brilliantly clear globes of crystal, the food served, steaming and succulent, they focused on reconnecting. It was as Michael always dreamed. Caitlyn faced him, back straight, legs demurely crossed at the ankle under the table, a starched white linen napkin laid gently across her lap. Her manners were perfection, graceful and composed. She was a dream woman, in every respect. She told him about her day at work, the long hours, her dreams and aspirations.

She confided in him. He could hardly believe his luck.

She left shortly after dinner that night. He plied her with a brandy and she decided she was getting a bit tipsy. Michael was charmed. Reluctantly, he saw her to the door, sad to see her go, but invigorated by the realization that he was well and truly in love.

* * *

“Caitlyn, phone.”

Caitlyn gritted her teeth. Every bloody night. Every time she anchored, he called. It had been nearly a month now. She was rarely alone in the studio; someone always walked her to her car. The police had been brought in four times, but they couldn’t seem to figure it out. Every time she changed her polish, he knew, and the studio phone would ring.

It was beyond an invasion of privacy. She was scared to death.

He’d been acting up lately, too. He became furious on the phone with her. He’d lash out in his displeasure, say cruel words meant to belittle and hurt.

He was getting to know more about her. Where she went on her Friday nights. Who she dined with during the week. That the report she’d done the week before some two hundred miles away from Huntsville was falsely backlit because they’d been unable to get the live shot in front of the setting sun.

She varied her schedule as often as she could, but she couldn’t afford the time it would take to drive across town to the other gym. There were two grocery stores she could frequent, so she switched it up. She changed nail salons five times.

She didn’t want to be chased out of her life just because some nut job was stalking her.

* * *

Michael and Caitlyn had been dating for a month when he decided he needed to tell her the truth. As with all new relationships, there were a few things about her that he had issues with. His hypocrite mother always taught him that a lady was never brash, never put herself out there to grab attention. Caitlyn wasn’t following these mandates, so he tried to let her know what he liked. She’d started off so demure and ladylike. Softly Southern, feminine.

He was heartened by her response: Caitlyn was terribly distraught that she’d upset him. Promised to stop wearing those shorts out of the house, for starters. Not that he was jealous, not at all, but it just wasn’t ladylike for her to leave those gorgeous long legs out for just anyone to stare at.

Their relationship was progressing slowly. They were still timid with one another, hadn’t gotten into anything physical. To be honest, Michael didn’t know if he could hold back when they reached that point. He had waited so long, and she was just so lovely—those cherry-ripe lips, that silken hair, the alabaster, swanlike neck. When they did reach the point that Michael thought it was all right to move forward and consummate their love, he wanted it to be perfect. Caitlyn deserved perfection. He waited, patient as a monk, for her to be ready.

* * *

Tom Stryc’s eyes were moist when he raised his glass.

“I’d like to propose a toast. To Caitlyn Kennedy, the hardest working, smartest reporter Huntsville has seen in years. You will be sorely missed, in all respects.”

“Hear! Hear!” The shouts came from all corners of the room. Glasses clinked, throats were cleared. The station had rented out the Palmas Cantina for the night, closing the place down to outside customers.

Caitlyn felt tears burn in the corners of her eyes.

All this work. She’d risen to the top at the station, worked her butt off to
be
someone. Now she was starting over. A new station, a new crew, a new life. The nameless, faceless bastard who haunted her life for the past three months had driven her to succeed, driven her right out of the Huntsville market to a better job.

Caitlyn closed her eyes and thanked whatever God had decreed that she move to Nashville and be the affiliate’s lead reporter, because it got her away from the creep.

* * *

Michael and Caitlyn had their first fight that night. Well, it wasn’t a fight, exactly. He was hurt, and angry. Caitlyn admitted she wanted something different, wanted to have a change of scenery. He loved Huntsville, felt attached to its seams.

Caitlyn didn’t agree. She wanted out.

They talked long into the night, until the crickets stopped chirping. Arms entwined around each other, lying on a soft fleece blanket on the cold ground, they watched the sun rise. They’d come to a decision. Michael wasn’t thrilled to leave his grandmother’s house behind, but it was more important to make a new life with Caitlyn in Nashville. So long as he was with her, anything was possible.

They left the following morning, both cars packed to the gills. As they got farther north, the skies filled with billowing gray clouds. The rain enveloped them as they pulled in to their new home. Michael laughed while Caitlyn started to unpack, freer than he’d felt in such a long time.

That first night was different. They shared a bottle of wine, a crisp Pinot Grigio bought at a store down the street. Michael had learned a lot more about wine in the past few months, had developed quite a palate and appreciated many varietals now. Caitlyn stood in the gloaming, sipping the last of her wine, halo hair spilling loosely around her shoulders, her face unlined and carefree. Michael knew, deep in his soul, that they would be happy here.

He watched her standing on the deck and realized the time had finally come. He wanted to be with her, always. He went to her, enveloped her in his arms. Caitlyn melted into him, her lips trailing across his neck, leaving a river of goose bumps in their wake. Her ardor astounded him; for months she’d been so contained, calm and poised. But when it came to actual physical contact, she glowed with passion. Lips bruised and tender, she watched Michael undress with a feral gleam in her eyes. He took his time with her blouse, shy again, fingers shaking, until she reached up, used her hands to guide his fingers. Her skin was so soft, so creamy that he couldn’t contain himself anymore. He had to have her, right now.

It didn’t take long.

Spent, they lay in front of the fireplace, sated with their love, so long in the making.

Michael told her then. That he loved her.

The words unnerved Caitlyn for some reason. She grew distraught, and he didn’t know how to make her better. She yelled at him, told him to go to hell, told him to leave. He was so astonished that he did. Walked right out the door, pulling his shirt over his shoulders. And then, not knowing where to go in the strange new town, he stood in front of the town house for two hours, trying to get up the nerve to go back inside, to ask what he’d done wrong.