Out of Mind (9 page)

Her chest compressed and compressed. Emptiness rushed in. The air was being sucked out of her—by John.

“John,” she tried to cry into his mouth.

The sucking went on.

Her skin prickled. Her mind dimmed.

Drowning?

No, suffocating.

With a huge effort she got her eyes open again and tried to scream. The man spread on top of her was huge. He was John but much bigger and the light in his eyes was fierce,
mad
.

The weight left. He stood beside the bed, bending over her, drawing on her mouth and nose while the world began to turn black for Caroline.

Helpless, paralyzed, she could do nothing to stop this man from inhaling her life. And while he pulled on her
insides with the massive drag of his sucking, Caroline got smaller.

She did get smaller, and smaller. She shrank until his mouth drew in her whole head.

A plop and he spat out her head again. She flipped over and landed in something transparent. A loud, loud bang sounded before it got darker. Wherever she was, the way in or out had been closed.

Peering as best she could, her whole vision was filled with a large, almost black eye looking back at her.

Then she knew where she was. Naked, curled in a ball, Caroline lay in the bottom of her own empty champagne glass.

“Y
ou aren’t my father, Ben,” Willow said, frustrated that he refused to let her go to see Nat Archer on her own.

Ben watched her face for an uncomfortably long moment. “Glad you noticed.”

The precinct house was also on Royal Street and only blocks from the Millet antiques shop.

They had almost reached the black railings around the forecourt that led to Nat’s office. Willow stopped walking. She faced Ben with the little red dog she already loved under her arm. “I don’t know how you found out when I’d be coming down here. You just showed up when I was leaving my flat. You keep on just showing up. Have you been messing around in my head again? There are basic courtesies to follow—for all the families like us. You know the rules about that.”

“I do, but I’m surprised you mention them.”

Lightning showers didn’t usually start in the morning, but today was an exception. White streaks cracked the heavy gray sky and big raindrops began to fall. The street smelled of damp grit and a suggestion of spilled beer from the night before.

Ben pulled her closer to the coffee shop next to the
precinct house. “Why do you have to try to be such a loner?” he said through his teeth. “You pretend you don’t need anyone. Not you, not Miss Independence. Crap. We all need other people.”

He didn’t get mad easily. Everyone said Ben had a long fuse, and he had almost never gotten angry with Willow. She looked from her white tennis shoes with lime-green flashes and laces, to the open door of the coffee shop. It wasn’t much after seven, but a stream of people on their way to work filed in and out. They dragged in. They came out with coffee steam rising past their noses and faint sparks of new hope in their eyes.

“Want some?” Ben angled his head toward the shop.

“I want you to go away and leave me to be an adult. I’ve got trouble—we both know that—but I’m the only one who can deal with it. And I’m not guilty of anything, so I’m not worried.”
Not true
.

“You’re right, it isn’t true,” Ben said. “You’re worried out of your mind and I don’t blame you.”

She frowned at him. “Stay out of my head!”

“I wasn’t in there. You were in mine.”

Had she been? The thought unnerved her. If she was starting to voluntarily enter his mind, or anyone else’s, she was losing her grip on being normal. She
was
normal, dammit. Being around all these so-called paranormal people was getting to her—rubbing off in some irritating ways and all of them imaginary. She would be okay as long as she remembered she only imagined she was psychic sometimes because she was afraid of being so.

“Thinking about it, are you?” Ben said.

If she didn’t turn a bit wobbly just looking at him, this wouldn’t be so hard. When his blue eyes looked straight
into hers and she could see how intensely concerned he was for her, staying mad took a lot of willpower.

Yesterday’s kisses still left their imprints on her. She looked at the palm of her hand and sighed. Yes, she really could still feel the imprint of his mouth there. Just giving in and sliding into his arms again would be heaven. It would also be unfair—to him, and to her in the end.

“Thanks for caring about me,” she said, softening her voice without meaning to.

“Can’t help myself,” he told her without a hint of amusement. “For the record. I couldn’t sleep last night so I gave up early. I’d already been out for a run and I was back in Sykes’s place when I heard your door open. Of course I was going to see what was going on and if I could do anything.”

She had noticed the tight black jogging pants—how could she not?—and the lightweight black cotton jacket over a T-shirt. He also wore running shoes.

“You can’t do anything, Ben. But thanks. It means a lot that you’d want to help.” And it did. What she couldn’t afford was to dwell on the sense of loss that only grew worse the longer he was around her. Wanting him but knowing she should not have him was a cruel thing.

He took her by the hand, firmly enough to make sure she couldn’t pull away.

Willow caught her breath and stared at him. “Worse,” she said, referring to the electric field that formed between their palms and fingers. “I mean, it’s even stronger than yesterday.”

“Did you think it would go away because I did? You wanted me to leave, Willow, so I did—and I hoped you’d ask me to come back. But no, nothing.” His dark blue eyes didn’t look at all sleepy in the muzzy morning light.

With the Millets, these hyperreactions between a man and a woman happened only when they were destined to be joined for life, or Bonded as it was known. Willow saw him through tears. She blinked and swallowed and tried to look away. She couldn’t.

“Things haven’t changed between us,” Ben said. “You can’t change that and neither can I.”

“Of course we can.” She made a useless attempt to drag her hand away. “It’s all imaginary.”

“Didn’t you ever love me, Willow?”

This was a nightmare, a nightmare and a dream all mixed up together. “Stop it,” she said.

They stood, holding hands, for what felt like minutes before Ben all but pulled her off her feet and into the shop. “Is it still americano with room for cream?” he asked flatly.

Willow nodded. “And yours is americano with no room for cream.” Pain had gone from their grip on each other, replaced by tingling warmth.

He grinned slightly. “I take it like a man,” he said, and she figured he wasn’t only talking about the coffee. “Any luck finding who that dog belongs to?”

“I’m going to call the shelter,” she said, her stomach knotting. “And I’ve put a sign in the shop window. I haven’t had a chance to see if I can find any ads looking for a dog. I think he was abandoned. He just showed up in my apartment.” She kissed wiry fur on the dog’s head.

When Ben didn’t answer, she looked up at him, expecting disapproval, but he smiled at her and scratched the dog under the chin. “Don’t forget there’s plenty of time for someone to come looking for him, but he couldn’t have a better home than with you. I’m hoping you get to keep him.”

She believed him. “Why do you make it so hard to stay angry with you?” she said and covered her mouth, amazed by what she’d said.

Ben gave a short laugh. “So what’s his name?”

“Mario,” she said, avoiding meeting his gaze.

“You liked my suggestion,” he said, sounding absurdly pleased. “Great.”

“Winnie begged her way in around four this morning and decided Mario is her pup. Can you imagine that? I thought she’d hate him on sight.”

“Winnie’s a one-of-a-kind dog. Does Mario mind being pushed around?”

“She gathered him up and curled herself around him,” Willow said. “I think she’d like to have taken him home to Marley and Gray.” She laughed. “Poor Marley.”

The barista pushed their paper cups across the counter and called Ben’s name. Finally their hands parted.

They took the coffee outside and stood under an awning while the rain fell. “I’d better go in there and see Nat,” Willow said, indicating the precinct. “When he’s through with me, I’ve got to get to my office and do any damage control necessary. Thanks for the coffee.”

He studied her seriously, trying not to be distracted by Mario’s penetrating black stare.

“I can’t make you let me,” he said, “but can I come with you? Nat may kick me out, but I don’t think so and it never hurts to let authority see you’ve got backup. Not that Nat won’t treat you well. From some of the things Gray has said about Nat’s bosses, he could be under the gun from them and fighting for a way to close this case. It could make him tougher than he’d normally be.”

“Well—”

“Both Sykes and Gray asked me to come with you,” he said in persuasive tones.

She considered while Mario continued to stare at Ben as if trying to transmit a message. “How did they know I was coming here this morning?”
If you didn’t repeat what you heard me say to Nat on the phone last night?

“Nat told them.” At least he hadn’t completely lied. Nat told Willow he wanted to see her—at her place or his. Ben had figured that out from listening to her side of the conversation and talked about it with the two men who had more experience dealing with the police than he did. So, in a way, Nat had told them—by a circuitous route.

“Okay. Come with me, but, if Nat behaves as if I’m a kid with parent in tow, please understand that’s more than my ego can take.”

He nodded. “Okay. And there’s nothing wrong with your ego. Let’s get this done.”

Mario licked her jaw and she cuddled him close. He kept his head tucked into her neck while they entered the precinct house.

Several uniformed cops congregated on the front steps of the building. If they had any interest in Ben and Willow, it didn’t show.

Inside, things were quiet, although the duty officer must just have come on because she looked fresh.

“Is Detective Archer in?” Ben asked.

“Surely is,” the woman said. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Willow Millet,” Willow said. “He’s expecting us.”

“He’s downstairs.”

Ben said, “We know the way,” although Willow didn’t.

He led her through a door and down some steps until they were beneath street level.

“How do you know how to get there?” Willow said.

“Gray said it was in the basement. How hard can it be?”

A corridor took them past mostly empty offices. They could see through mangled metal blinds that few people were at their desks yet.

They arrived at a door that announced Detective Archer, and Ben knocked.

Nat could be seen pacing around inside, and he hurried to open the door. Looking from Willow to Ben, he frowned, but kept whatever he was thinking to himself. “Come on in.” He looked at the coffee in their hands.

“Sheesh,” Willow said. “I should have brought you some.”

“I’ve already had some,” he said, but still he gave her cup a longing look. “Have a seat. Both of you. I don’t suppose Gray’s started talking about wanting to come back to the department, has he?”

Willow sat in a metal chair in front of Nat’s desk. She wouldn’t let herself smile at the pathetic hope in Nat’s question. It was no secret that Nat missed his old partner. “Not that I’ve heard,” she said. “He’s still writing articles—mostly local color. Plenty to write about. But Marley said he’s working on a book, too. Fiction, I think. Some sort of mystery. And they’re all secretive about it, but Gray has this big project on jazz singers—tied in with all the ones that went missing earlier this year. If I ask about it, all he’ll say is that he has ‘to be patient,’ whatever that means.”

“Yeah, he isn’t bored with all that yet,” Nat said. “Too bad. I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate Bucky Fist—he’s reliable—but he’s ambitious and he’ll move up. And I’ve had two of the best partners ever, Gray and Guy Gautreaux before him. The really good ones don’t come along often enough and then they don’t stay, dammit.”

“I expect Wazoo keeps you up to date on Guy,” Ben said. “They’re both in Toussaint. Guy’s a private eye now, isn’t he?”

Nat couldn’t have expected the remark, and he didn’t look happy. “They are and he is,” was all he said.

Willow knew Wazoo was Nat Archer’s girlfriend, who lived in Toussaint, not far from St. Martinville and was rumored to have “powers.” That’s what was said by people who were being kind. Oblique references to ritual and voodoo occasionally came up. Whatever, everyone knew Nat was crazy about her.

“Okay,” Nat said. “We’ve got quite a bit to go through, and you’re in the middle of it all, Willow.”

“She’s not in the middle of anything,” Ben said sharply. He was still standing. “Except by coincidence.”

“It was actually Willow I asked to see,” Nat said, mildly enough. “I’d like her to answer for herself.”

Willow was under no illusion that Nat’s mild manner wouldn’t turn downright nasty if Ben didn’t keep his mouth shut.

Ben said, “Sorry,” and Willow was relieved.

The office, with its scarred desk and grubby orange carpet, smelled of old nicotine, which must be from other people since Willow had never seen Nat smoke. A whiteboard—scribbled all over—just about covered one sick-green wall and she noted that Nat owned his
own watercooler. Very little else in the office was worth noticing.

“Would you like to have a lawyer present?” Nat asked.

She swallowed. “Not unless it gets sticky.”

“And you want Ben with you?”

Willow only hesitated a moment. “Yes. This isn’t what you call an official interrogation, is it? No recordings or anything?”

“Not even a note, unless there’s something I really need to remember straight,” Nat said with a reassuring smile that only made Willow raise her guard higher.

A notepad sat on his desk, open to a pristine page and with a pen on top.

“New dog?” Nat said after a long, uncomfortable pause. “It’s a fancy breed I should know, isn’t it?”

“This is Mario,” Willow said and smiled. “He’s a mutt.” She had yet to try to figure out the ingredients in Mario, but she’d decided he was a small terrier mix.

“Cute,” Nat said. “What does Winnie think of it?”

Willow wasn’t foolish; she knew when she was being softened up. “She’s fine about Mario,” she said. “Tell me what happened on South Rampart Street last night. What did Chris say to you?”

Nat picked up a folder and opened it. Inside were papers and a stack of photographs. He gave her the photos. “Anyone you know?”

She looked at the first shot and winced.

“Sorry,” Nat said. “If they’re too much for you, say so.”

“I’m okay.” She was grateful Ben didn’t say anything. “It’s Surry Green,” she said, looking at the dead and discolored face revealed by a sheet pulled down beneath the chin. “She lived over the dance hall. What did she die of?”

“I’m waiting for the medical examiner’s report. Shouldn’t be long. Look at the others.”

Willow didn’t want to, but she put the first photo on the bottom of the pile and looked at the next one. This time the body was naked and someone had used arrows and notations around the edges.

“Oh, my God,” Willow said. “What am I… I’m not sure what I’m seeing.”

“A body with the skin stripping off,” Nat said dispassionately.