Reunion (3 page)

But when it came time to decorate Angela Connor’s side of the grave, he unwrapped the first bundle of roses, then hesitated. There was something he’d left undone. He dropped back to his knees and picked up a single, long-stemmed rose. Then, one by one, he began breaking the thorns off the stem. Only after it was completely smooth and unable to harm did he lay it upon the ground. He picked up another and began to repeat the same process all over again, echoing a habit his mother had practiced for all her life.

The rose had been her favorite flower, but she had frequently commented upon the irony of such beauty being capable of causing such pain and had done what she thought was fitting by removing the thorns from her glorious bouquets.

The process was tedious, and more than once he pricked his own finger. But the pain was nothing to what he was feeling inside. His grief gave way as he dropped the last rose to the ground. Tears ran hot and angry, and rage filled him.

“Ah, God, why them and not me?”

But there were no answers. In spite of the heat of the day, a chill settled inside him. Weary beyond belief, he started back to the car. A few yards away, he heard someone sobbing. Startled, he turned to look. There was no one there. He touched his cheeks, but his own tears had already dried.

The voice. It was back. Foreboding swept over him in waves of defeat. He thrust his hand through his hair, feeling the place where they’d shaved it to stitch up the wounds.

“Leave me alone,” he muttered. “I’ve got troubles of my own.”

After that, the voice was strangely silent.

B
rent Connor had founded Straight Arrow Security when Gabriel was ten. Gabriel had joined the company straight out of college. Now it was all his, and he didn’t want it.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know the job. It was the being in control that bothered him. He kept asking himself how the hell could he operate a million-dollar business when he couldn’t control his own thoughts?

Twice in the past few days he’d come close to telling his uncle Mike about the voice. The man was a psychiatrist. Surely he’d heard wilder stories from other patients. But an instinct for self-preservation kept him quiet. He’d convinced himself that this was nothing more than an anomaly, and that it would eventually go away. Therefore, the less people who knew what was happening to him, the better off he would be. That was what he’d told himself. That was what he believed.

And yet, when they turned into the winding drive leading to the Connor estate, Gabriel found himself beginning to panic. Could he live among the memories without losing his mind? He shuddered. Maybe it was too late. Maybe his sanity was already coming undone.

He shoved aside the negative thoughts and made himself focus on the three-story mansion with its gleaming white walls and elegant Corinthian columns. Like four guards on duty, they stood two stories tall, bracing a third-story balcony that ran the length of the home.

His gaze moved from the house to the grounds, and even though he couldn’t see it, he knew the most beautiful spot was his mother’s rose garden at the back of the estate. His belly knotted, and he wondered if this would ever feel like home again.

Mike parked and then pointed toward the house. “Matty must have been watching for us. Here she comes.”

Gabriel tensed. Facing her wouldn’t be easy.

Matty Sosa was more like a grandparent to Gabriel than the family housekeeper. When she saw him, her face crumpled, and she began to hug him fiercely.

“
Madre de Dios.
You are too thin.”

Gabriel managed a smile as he returned her embrace. “Hospital food isn’t as good as your cooking.”

Matty dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her apron. Desperate for something to do, she reached for Gabriel’s bag.

“Enter, enter,” she commanded, and led the way inside the house. “I will put the bag in your room. You…boy…take your uncle Mike out to the patio and sit. I will bring cold drinks.”

Gabriel watched her bustling away and wondered how old he would have to be before she quit calling him boy. He glanced at Mike.

“Hope you didn’t have other plans. Sounds like you’re expected to stay for dinner.” Realizing how offhand the invitation sounded, he added, “And I would appreciate the company.”

Mike pretended not to notice Gabriel’s despondency. “It’s a good thing she offered. It saved me from having to beg later.”

They started through the house, talking amiably about nothing in general and moving at a pace that would accommodate Gabriel’s healing injuries. But he was having a difficult time focusing on Mike’s conversation. Everything reminded him of his parents and the happy life they had shared. He wondered if coming back here had been wise after all.

And then they turned a corner in the hallway, and it felt to Gabriel as if the air was suddenly devoid of oxygen. His chest felt heavy with each indrawn breath, and the skin on his face began to tighten. Even though he knew it was impossible, something was invading his mind.

Help me.

Gabriel cursed beneath his breath as he staggered toward a nearby wall, desperate for the touch of something solid—something he knew was really there. When his hand connected with the cool, flat surface, he closed his eyes and groaned.

Startled, Mike reached for his arm.

“Gabriel? Are you okay?”

Gabriel braced himself with both hands against the wall, shuddering as a cold sweat covered his body.

Can’t find you.

Struggling against the unwanted invasion of his mind, he made himself stand when he wanted to fall. He hated this. He wasn’t a weakling, but it seemed that his mind didn’t know it. This constant cry for help was making him crazy. He hit the wall with his fist.

“Son of a bitch.”

Mike spun away. “I’m calling a doctor.”

Gabriel stopped Mike’s intent with a fierce glare and a firm grip.

“Let it go. I’m all right.”

Mike took one look at the pallor of Gabriel’s face and shook his head. “No, damn it, you’re not.”

“A doctor can’t fix what’s wrong with me,” Gabriel muttered, then walked away.

The house was silent. The evening meal had been strained, but somehow they’d gotten through it, as well as Mike’s reluctant exit to his own home. Now Gabriel walked through the empty rooms, listening for the echoes of happier times. He paused in the hallway just off the kitchen and closed his eyes, remembering the sounds of his mother’s voice and his father’s exuberant shouts of laughter. But when he walked away, all he heard were the distinct sounds of his own footsteps upon the gleaming floors.

Without conscious thought, he was following in the footsteps his father had taken each night before retiring. He paused in the foyer, glancing at a panel of numbers in a small, recessed area of the wall near the front door. A red light glowed. The security system was on and locked. Having seen to that much of the business of living, Gabriel turned and walked to the foot of the stairs, then paused and looked up.

The upper two stories of the house seemed to mock him. He shook off the feeling and took the first step. It was the hardest. After that, it was simply a matter of putting one foot in front of the other.

Within the hour he’d fallen asleep.

The man lifted his head and sniffed—like an animal testing the air for things that didn’t belong. It was dark beneath the trees, and he moved quickly toward the clearing beyond, anxious to get away from things unseen.

Gravel crunched beneath his feet as his steps hastened. The bag he was carrying bumped against his leg. Moments later, he dropped to his knees before the marble edifice and then down on all fours, stretching out upon the blanket of roses as if it were the softest of beds. His cheeks were wet with tears as he turned his face to the earth. The leaves felt like feathers against his skin and the wilted petals of the roses like kisses.

A car, minus a muffler, sped by on the road beyond, rattling its way through the night. At the sound, his fingers curled into mighty fists; then he raised his head, searching the night. There was no one in sight. Tension slid away as weariness hit him. He was tired. So tired. And his head was aching.

“Mother…Mother, can’t find you.”

He curled in upon himself, wishing himself back into familiar surroundings. But somehow he’d gotten himself lost and forgotten how to get back.

“Help me.”

No one answered. No one came. He sat like that for hours, until the moon was high in the midnight sky. Suddenly a light appeared at the far end of the locked gates at the end of the road. Panic came upon him, and for a moment, he froze, uncertain of what he should do.

Then he remembered a day long ago and his mother telling him that when he was afraid, he was to run to her, that she would take care of him always.

He looked down at the roses upon which he was sitting. Mother liked roses. He began gathering a bouquet, careful to get only the ones with no thorns.

A night bird swooped just beyond his line of vision as he knelt among the tombstones, but he knew it was there. He felt the air move at its passing. Overhead, a bank of clouds slipped between the heavens and earth, momentarily blocking out the luminous glow of a three-quarter moon.

By the time the car had turned around, he was gone.

The red light was no longer flashing on the security panel inside the Connor home. The French doors leading out to the flagstone patio beyond the library were standing ajar. Outside, a wind had sprung up, bringing with it the scent of rain.

The streets were quiet. In this neighborhood, at this time of the morning, traffic was nonexistent. He liked the silence. It made him feel good. It made him feel safe. His stomach grumbled, reminding him of his hunger. Up ahead, he could see lights spilling out from a building. At the thought of food, his steps quickened, and then he saw movement from the corner of his eye. A woman walked out of the shadows, and his heart leaped.

“Mother?”

Her laugh was low and husky. “Now, honey, do I look like your mommy?”

He frowned. She didn’t look like Mother. Mother had short hair and smelled good. This woman’s hair was long and black, and there was a scent about her he didn’t quite like. But she smiled, and he was so tired and hungry. He stopped.

She ran her hand up the length of his arm and then glanced down at the flowers and the bag he was carrying.

“Ummm-hmmm, you know just what women like, don’t you, hon? You come to my place. For twenty dollars, I’ve got just what
you
like, too.”

She held out her hand, and he took it. Because he was tired. Because he was hungry.

The stairs where she led him were steep and narrow. The door to her apartment had once been a bright, fiery red. The color had faded, and the paint was peeling, but the message was still the same. She unlocked the door and then walked inside, pulling him in behind her.

The room smelled like she did. Unwashed and smoky. He wrinkled his nose.

“Smells bad.”

She frowned and then grinned wryly. “Before I get through with you, you won’t care what you smell, only how Gloria can make you feel.”

With that, she ran her hand down the front of his pants and unzipped the zipper, feeling him for size. As she did, he hardened beneath her touch.

“Ooh, hon, you’ve got yourself quite a pecker. Normally I don’t indulge, but I might want some of that myself.”

This wasn’t what he’d expected, but what she was doing felt good. He forgot his hunger and stared down at her hand inside his pants, but when she lowered her head, he took a quick step backward, muttering more to himself than to her, “No, no.”

She straightened up, her eyes narrowing. This one was jumpy, but damn, he was good-looking. It wasn’t often she got hold of one like him.

“Let’s put on a little mood music and make a trade. You owe me twenty dollars, big boy.” She gave his manhood a final squeeze before turning away.

His stomach grumbled again. He looked around and sighed. He couldn’t see any food, but maybe that was where she was going. Maybe she was going to bring him something to eat.

Suddenly a raucous blend of hard rock and rap shattered the intimacy of the moment.

The woman turned toward him with a smile on her face and began moving her body to the beat as she started toward him.

For him, there was no music, only a cacophony of wild sounds that to him became pain. With the wilting flowers still clutched in his hand, he threw back his head and screamed, clawing at his ears and beating himself on the head.

The woman stopped short. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

She was standing too close to his answer.

He swung blindly, wanting to stop the pain and stopped her heart instead. Thrown against the wall by the momentum of the blow, her neck snapped, and the stereo she’d turned on only moments earlier fell to the floor with a crash.

When the sound ceased, the pain disappeared. He stood in the silence, staring down at the woman in blank confusion. His stomach grumbled again. There was a small drop of blood at the corner of her lip. He squatted down beside her and wiped it away with the ball of his thumb while staring at a swath of black hair lying across her eyes.

Her blood was still on his hand, and he wiped it on the seat of his pants. He’d cut himself before and remembered that it hurt to bleed. She must be hurting, too. He looked down at his roses and then rocked back on his heels. Without hesitation, he pulled a single, long-stemmed rose from the bunch and laid it upon her stomach.

“There now. All better.”

He walked out of the room without looking back.

When Gabriel opened his eyes, he found himself standing in the dark at the edge of his mother’s garden with a long-stemmed rosebud in his hand. Its leaves were covered with some of the same dew that had dampened the hems of his jeans. But when he looked closer, he knew it would never open. It had been picked too soon.

As he glanced up at the house, he had a fleeting impression that it was a face and the windows its eyes, and that he was being judged and found lacking. He looked down at the rose and then suddenly tossed it away, wiping his damp fingers on his jeans as if he were wiping off something foul.

At the same time, he felt something wet on the side of his jeans. It was thick and sticky, and he stared intently, trying to make out what it was. Whatever it was looked black in this light.

Blood?

He looked down at his hands, searching for injury, but it was too dark to see what he’d done.