I Can See You (18 page)

“It’s okay,” Eve said to Nillson. “I’ll be careful of
what I say.”

“For the record, I’m telling you it’s not wise,” he
said and she smiled, then winked.

“Thanks for helping me. I’ll give Callie a good
report. I’m ready, Detective. Let’s go.”

Monday, February 22, 9:00 p.m.

Webster’s inside source had been at Christy Lewis’s
house and in all the excitement had dropped her keys. Careless of her, he
thought as he crept up the three flights of stairs to her apartment. She wasn’t
home now, but she’d be back. He could wait.

She’d have to catch a ride with someone else as she
had no car key. He doubted Eve was as foolish as Christy, who’d kept keys under
her doormat and under her car.

He hoped whoever brought Eve home would just drop her
off at the front entrance downstairs, where he would be waiting. He hoped she’d
be alone, for her companion’s sake and his own. He’d killed two at a time
before, but it was logistically more difficult.

It would look as if she’d left town for a few days.
Finding a dead body could be so stressful, after all. He wanted Eve silenced.
He wanted no connection between her thesis and his six victims. She shouldn’t
know of any connection. She shouldn’t know Christy was a participant in her
study. And maybe she didn’t, but he wouldn’t count on it.

He opened her front door and slipped inside. She was
tidy, but her roof leaked. If he had to listen to that constant dripping into
pots, it would certainly make him insane.

Eve wouldn’t have to worry about the dripping for much
longer. The gun in his pocket would ensure her compliance as he forced her into
his SUV. The syringe in his other pocket would keep her quiet during transport.
Disposal in his pit would ensure no one would ever find her. And whatever
happened in between… Icing on the cake.

To his surprise he saw her laptop on the arm of a
stuffed chair. He hadn’t expected she’d leave it behind. He’d definitely be
taking that with him. But there should be more. Papers. Notes. He needed
everything connecting to her thesis. He was searching her desk when he heard a
door slam below.
Damn.
He’d wanted to catch her downstairs.

“Evie?” A man was coming. Footsteps pounded as the man
ran up the stairs. “Evie?”

Her door stood ajar and there was no time to close it.
He darted into the coat closet empty-handed, listening, pulse racing.
I
should have grabbed the laptop first and run
.

“Evie?” The man pushed the front door open. Through a
crack in the closet door he watched him come into the living room and stop a
foot from where he hid. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart as
he lifted his eyes, higher, assessing the stranger. The man was big, far too
big to overpower long enough to get a syringe in his neck.
Shoot him. Now.
But that would leave quite a mess and getting that gorilla body down three
flights of stairs would be difficult to say the least.

Perspiration beaded his forehead and he stood poised,
his finger on the trigger.

“Evie. You left your door unlocked.
Again
.” The
man’s annoyance became fear and he rushed back to the bedroom.
“Evie?”

Get the laptop.
He slipped from the closet and took a step toward the stuffed chair when he
heard footsteps returning.
Damn.
Leaving the laptop, he ran through the
door and down the first flight as Eve’s visitor came rushing back to the living
room.

He crept down the remaining stairs and climbed into
his SUV, adrenaline pumping. A red pickup truck was parked on the street. It
had not been there when he went in.

He brought up a license plate lookup site on his
BlackBerry and keyed in the man’s Illinois plate. His name was David Hunter.
Means
nothing to me. Maybe he’ll go away
.

He certainly hoped so, because if not, he’d have to
get rid of him, too. Because eliminating Eve was of paramount importance. She
knew far too much.

Monday, February 22, 9:15 p.m.

“I can bring you back tomorrow, and you can search for
your keys in the daylight,” Webster said as he pulled away from Christy’s
house.

“I must have dropped them when I got cuffed.”

He hesitated. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

Treating her carefully was a common reaction of people
on learning of her assault. Normally it annoyed, but tonight, coming from him…
it hurt.

“No,” she said sharply, then sighed. “I can always
tell when someone knows what happened. That you found out is okay, but it’s not
okay to treat me like I’m broken, because I’m not.” She smiled to soften her
words. “Everyone wants to know about my scar, and the evil villains, and what
it was like to die, and did I see bright lights and God. You’ve got questions.
Stop tiptoeing around and ask them.”

He shot her one of his unreadable glances before
returning his eyes to the road. The minutes ticked by as she waited for him to
ask what he really wanted to know, but he didn’t. Instead the air between them
grew heavy. Charged. Dangerous, even.

Which seemed dichotomous as she actually felt safer
right here, right now, with him, than she had in years. The danger was the same
she sensed every time she watched him framed in Sal’s doorway. That feeling of
standing on the edge. A precipice.

Of putting out her foot and feeling only air.

Hot, heavy air. It was intoxicating. Her skin tingled
and her body throbbed even as she told herself it
wasn’t going to happen
.
Still, it compelled her to ask what she’d wanted to know for a year. “Why do
you come to a bar and drink tonic water?”

He started. “What?”

“I’ve filled your drink order for a year. You never
drink anything but water. Why?”

“Because I’m a recovering alcoholic,” he said, then
glanced over, as if surprised he’d told her. “That’s not in my personnel
jacket.”

“Bartenders don’t tell. But that wasn’t really my
question. Why come to Sal’s at all?”

She knew, but felt a perverse need to hear him say it
out loud.
That’s cruel, Eve. Making him admit he wants you might make you
feel better, stronger, but it’ll hurt him. You can’t give him what he needs.
You can’t give any man what he needs. So let it go.

His jaw tightened. “I guess I like to people watch.”

“So do I. Now, your partner, on the other hand… Jack’s
not a watcher.”

“He’s a live wire,” Webster murmured. “Life of the
party.”

“That’s what he wants everyone to believe. But I think
he’s alone, even in a crowd.”

“I don’t think he’d like to hear that.” But he agreed,
she could tell.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t. But I can see it in his eyes,
every time he hits on me when he fetches your tonic water for you.”

His hands tightened on the wheel. “You want me to tell
him to stop hitting on you?”

End this right now, Eve. Don’t hurt him.
“It doesn’t really matter, the result would be the
same. I’m not… available. For anyone.” It was as kind as she could make it.

He blew out a long breath. “I see.”

She could see he did. “I’m sorry, Noah,” she said
softly. And she was. Very much so.

He kneaded the steering wheel. “I never would have
said anything to you.”

“I know. And I’m flattered, but I didn’t want you
wondering. You’re too nice for that.”

His smile was grim. “Sometimes,” he said cryptically.
“I’m ready to ask my question.”

She studied his profile, clinically, she told herself.
But it wasn’t true. Normally she clenched her hands to keep from touching her
own scar, but at this moment she did so to keep from touching his face. Just a
few feet away. His cheeks were stubbled and she wondered how that would feel.
Against her fingertips. Against her own cheek.

That she’d never find out was a bitter pill to
swallow. “So ask.”

He turned to look at her, his eyes intense. “Why are
you not available for anyone?”

Her chest hurt, but she kept her face impassive. “If I
told you that was too personal?”

“Then I’d accept that. I understand about keeping
secrets to yourself.”

But he’d told her a secret and she felt compelled to
do the same. “I lied,” she said simply. “I am broken. Therefore, unavailable.”

A muscle twitched in his taut jaw. “I don’t believe
that.”

Her throat grew tight. “You don’t know me.”

He was quiet for a beat. “That’s fair. But that can
change. Let me know you.”

“Do you know how much I wish that was possible?” she
said, very quietly. Her voice trembled and she firmed it. “But it’s not. I’d
appreciate if you would accept that. I’ll be happy to help you in any way I can
with this case. But it has to end there. I’m sorry.”

She watched him swallow, his jaw clench. “All right,”
he said finally, harshly. “Then tell me about the women in your study who
become addicted to this virtual world.”

“Why?”

“Because your study is the link, Eve. Whoever killed
at least two of these women hunted them in your game. He understands them, or
that part of them at least. To catch him, I have to think like him. So help me
see the victims the way he does.”

She almost smiled. In helping him understand his
victims, she’d be sharing a great deal of herself. And she was certain he knew
that. “All right. That I can do.”

Monday, February 22, 10:00 p.m.

Bitch
. He
backed away from the blinged-out, bleached-blonde bimbo avatar, tempted for a
brief moment to abandon his plan and take her out next, wherever she lived.

Drop dead
,
she’d said. Women were rude when they thought they were anonymous. He hadn’t
wanted to buy her a drink. It was just his way of keeping his avatar moving. In
Ninth Circle, the avatar that stopped got attention. He did not want attention.

He was furious that he’d missed Eve, more furious that
he’d been forced to run. He’d logged in to Shadowland before he’d properly
calmed down. That was a good way to make a mistake. He couldn’t afford any
mistakes.

The cops knew Eve, so they knew about Shadowland.
Right now there wasn’t much they could do about that. No one knew he was here
and if they did, no one knew who he was. Importantly, no one knew who he’d
target next.

The blonde bitch wasn’t on his list. He made his way
through the crowd, searching for the one he’d come to see. Rachel Ward. He’d
been looking forward to this one.

Rachel married young, but never reached her fifth
anniversary. She’d botched it all, having affairs while her husband drove a
truck to support them. The husband found out and, appropriately angry, had set
fire to the motel in which Rachel met her lovers.

Her lover was killed. Rachel had nearly died of smoke
inhalation. Now, five years later, Rachel’s husband sat in prison and she had a
very understandable fear of fire.

Rachel worked hard all day. But at night, she
played—in the virtual world. She was Delilah, a cabaret dancer performing four
times a week at the Casino Royale. Tonight she was off, which meant he’d find
her here, in Ninth Circle. She’d go “home” with whoever was first to buy her a
drink. He’d been first a few times.

She’d fallen for the sweet virtual pillow talk
afterward. He was shy, he’d told her, with women in general. It was why he’d
never had a real date, why he worked all the time, on the road five nights a week,
filling his lonely nights in cheap motel rooms with virtual dancing and virtual
sex. She’d pitied him. She was lonely, too, she said. And needy.

He guessed so. Five years was a long time to be
celibate when she’d been such a whore, and virtual sex had to pale in
comparison to the real thing.

If you’re ever near Minneapolis, give me a shout
, she’d said.
We’ll have a drink. Maybe do some
real dancing.
Tonight he’d give her that shout. He’d tell her he was coming
to the Twin Cities on business, but for only one night. Tomorrow night.

That would give him time to pull everything he needed
together.

She set the virtual dance floor on fire, but tomorrow
it was Rachel who would burn.

He glanced up, startled by the beam of headlights. He
closed his laptop, hoping the driver had not seen the glow of his screen. It
was Noah Webster. Driving Eve home.

He glanced at his clock, surprised by how much time
had passed. He’d thought he had been in the game for only a few minutes, but
the software ran slower, took longer when he used his wireless card.
I
shouldn’t have been searching for Rachel. I should have been watching for Eve
.

With that man still in her apartment, his only chance
to grab Eve would have been at the downstairs door as she went inside. Now she
was already home, and, as expected, she was not alone. Unfortunately, he
doubted Webster would just drop her off and drive away. Webster was too much
the white knight, he thought bitterly.