Rising Heat (107 page)

At the moment, I was in my truck, driving back to my house. I had to do it. Now. Before I chickened out. I had to reclaim my home and my life. I knew it would take time, but I knew with an instinct that I couldn’t dismiss that I had to drive up my driveway, had to go into my house, and had to come to terms with that horrible chain of events.

I knew that I needed time. Yes, the thought of going back home was intimidating, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. Cutter was dead. He wouldn’t bother me anymore. Still, I felt nervous and filled with trepidation. So much had happened in such a short span of time, it was still difficult to process, but I knew that the longer I put off going back home, the harder it would be.

Before I was discharged, I spend as much time as the nurses would allow in Hawk’s room. I sat by his bed, holding his hand. Sometimes we talked and sometimes we said nothing at all. I knew we were processing everything — on our own terms and at our own pace.

His mother came every day, as well as numerous members of his clan. By now, everyone in town had learned what happened. It was on the news, in the newspaper that Hawk asked for every morning. The investigation was still ongoing. Detective Weston was at the center of the investigation. He was interviewed on TV, as was the Chief of Police. The shock of discovering that one of their own was a serial killer rattled everyone; the law enforcement community, longtime friends, business owners…

Surprisingly, not much criticism was directed at the police. After all, Cutter had lived and moved among Seneca community residents for decades with no one the wiser. The evil he had perpetrated left residents gasping with shock. Finger pointing was pointless. Cutter had fooled everyone.

Members from surrounding county police and sheriff’s departments, as well as the FBI, converged on Seneca. It seemed as if everyone in town was being interviewed or spoken to about their relationship with Cutter. Reports of the murders and subsequent investigation went nationwide. News vans and reporters clustered around the hospital, anxious to talk to Hawk, or me, or anyone involved in the investigation. We both refused to comment, even without Detective Weston cautioning us to do so.

It was horrible. Every time the image of Detective Cutter came into my mind, I felt sick to my stomach. Not only at his ability to fool everyone so completely, but his ability to act so… so normal. From the first day I met him until he revealed his true identity in the cellar of that house, I never in my wildest imaginings would have believed that Cutter was the killer. I knew I wasn’t the only one in the community left reeling from the truth.

Forensic psychologists, the FBI behavioral unit, and amateur psych students and their professors would spend months, if not years, trying to figure out what had turned Cutter into a killer and how he had managed to elude suspicion for so long. I still found it incredibly difficult to believe that he had killed out of mere jealousy. Hawk told me that he didn’t understand it either. Chances were we likely never would.

Hawk was good at compartmentalizing. He didn’t want to think about Cutter. He wanted to think about the future. I, however, was still stuck in the throes of the emotional upheaval of the past weeks.

On top of the shock of the discovery of the killer’s identity was my struggle to deal with the fact that I had killed him. I didn’t take that lightly. Yes, Cutter was a monster. A monster who would’ve killed me and Hawk if given the chance. Still, I had taken another person’s life, and it left me with more than a few ravaged emotions.

In his hospital room, Hawk and I spent some time talking about it. I knew he was right when he said I hadn’t had a choice and that sometimes we all had to take drastic measures to save ourselves and the ones we loved. I knew that, but I also knew that I would never, ever forget what it felt like to pull that trigger. To feel the kickback of that gun in my hand, the smell of the gunfire, nor the expression of surprise I had seen on Cutter’s face when those bullets ripped into his flesh.

I pushed those thoughts from my mind, or least to the back. The two-lane blacktop was deserted as I drove out of town toward my house. Before I knew it, I was approaching my driveway. I couldn’t help but see in my mind’s eye the image of the police car, with Officer Richardson sitting dead in the front seat. I took a deep breath, swallowed, and then pulled into my driveway.

A slight shudder passed through me as I passed the spot where his cruiser had been parked. I offered a silent prayer for the officer and then, my resolve steady, I drove down the long driveway toward my house.

It looked the same as it always had. Charming, innocent, warm and friendly. Still, I couldn’t help a myriad of feelings as I approached the porch. I pulled my truck to a stop and got out, not even allowing myself time to hesitate. I stood outside, relishing the feel of the sun on my face.

My left arm was still swathed in a bandage, aching occasionally, as did my right leg, also bandaged, but I was trying not to take too many of the painkillers the doctor had prescribed. The muscles pulled tightly as I stood. I looked around, saw a rabbit nibbling at the grass on the side of the house, heard the birds in the trees, and smelled the pine in the air. A sudden sense of peace and tranquility surged through me.

The evil was gone. I had come home.

I cleaned and scrubbed it from top to bottom, eliminated any trace of Cutter or what he had done here. The fingerprint powder was gone for my bedroom. In fact, I switched things up a bit, moving my bedroom downstairs and my office upstairs.

A fresh start.

A new beginning.

I went to see Hawk every day at the hospital, but I also allowed him time to spend alone with his mother, his cousins, his friends; friends he had known since high school, friends that needed to talk to him, to make sense of the evil that had been in their midst for so long.

I spent about half my time at the hospital, the other half at my house while he continued to recuperate. As promised, I went to the Seneca Police Department and gave Detective Westin my full statement. I was also interviewed by two agents of the FBI’s behavioral analysis unit. From what Westin told me, Hawk had given a recorded statement to him in the privacy of his hospital room, and then revealed that Hawk had pretty much told the FBI behavioral analysts to shove it.

While I waited for Hawk to be discharged, I tried to think about work. Still, it was hard. Hard to concentrate when my mind kept replaying “the incident” as I started to call it, and our narrow escape.

The first night staying at my house by myself had been a little nerve-racking — okay, a lot. But, I was proud of myself. I forced myself to lay in bed, listening to the sound of the owl that had obviously staked out a tree close to the house. That first night, I probably got only a few hours of sleep, mostly broken up into short increments, but it was progress. The second night was easier, and the third night I slept through the entire night and woke up to the soft glow in my bedroom, smiling with self-satisfaction at the ceiling.

The morning of the day that Hawk was to be discharged, I went into town to pay some bills; my utilities and Internet services, but was surprised to find that they had already been paid, not only for this month but for several months. As much as I tried, I couldn’t get anyone to tell me who had paid my bills in advance, but one clerk did tell me that it wasn’t just one person, but a community effort.

My eyes had filled with tears of appreciation and gratitude. The thought that strangers would reach out and help someone like me had proven that neighborliness was still alive and well, at least up in Vermont. They touched my heart. When I shared the good news with Hawk, he told me that he’d been the recipient of the same generosity.

If I had even thought about moving away, that generosity of spirit, that outreaching of community, changed my mind. I wasn’t going anywhere. Seneca was my home now.

The day Hawk was released from the hospital was a beautiful day, the sky incredibly blue, the sunshine warm for a fall day, and to my pleasure, I noticed that the leaves were changing. Soon the cool breeze would give way to snow. That thought naturally brought me back to Hawk. Was he serious about spending the winter up in his cabin?

As it turned out, he was. We did spend the winter up in his cabin, sometimes stuck in the cabin for days due to heavy falling snow. I had been prepared to rough it to the extreme in order to find out if Hawk and I
did
have a relationship, if our feelings for one another were not the mere result of the near-constant adrenaline rush we had experienced since the moment we met. Would I be able to live with Hawk day in and day out? Would he be able to put up with me? Uppermost in my mind was a very pertinent question. Could I live without my computers for a couple of months?

To my surprise, I realized that I could live without my technology. I couldn’t live without Hawk. During his hospital stay, his mother and several cousins had worked to slightly modernize the cabin. A small, rudimentary bathroom had been added to the structure. The toilet tank had to be filled with a bucket of water for each flush, which emptied out into a small septic system out behind the cabin, but it was still better than peeing out in the woods. In the snow.

The pantry had been stocked to overflowing with canned goods and supplies. Nearly every member of his clan had contributed a variety of dried meats and fruits and canned vegetables, and we certainly wouldn’t want for food. At least a month’s supply of firewood had been chopped and stacked out back, covered with a tarpaulin. We wouldn’t freeze to death.

Two weeks after he was released from the hospital, Hawk and I headed up to his cabin. I had done a lot of thinking during those days before we left. Made some contacts and reached out. Instead of relying solely on drumming up business for myself one client at a time, I had also accepted a job offer for fairly regular work as a website designer for a corporation selling pharmaceuticals. It was only a six-month gig that would start in the spring, but it gave me time to reassess where I was, where I wanted to go, career wise, and let’s be honest, to recover from the trauma I had just experienced. Post-traumatic stress was a bitch.

My concerns and doubts about whether we really had a relationship were soon put to rest. We had a blast. When the weather allowed, we spent our days walking in the woods, talking, sharing our past experiences, our hopes and our dreams.

I learned how to walk in snowshoes, after a few hilarious falls. I even learned how to fish. The nearby stream was frozen along the edges, but on warmer days, Hawk said the fish would bite. It was an activity I found surprisingly relaxing. Of course, once I hooked a fish, I always handed my pole to Hawk. Call me silly, but I didn’t want to watch as he pulled the hook out of the fish nor cleaned them, and I have to admit that I refused to learn.

He did most of the cooking, which was perfectly fine with me as I didn’t know how to cook much of anything without a microwave. When the snows came, we stayed inside more. It was a good thing he had a good supply of condoms because the sex was incredible — and frequent. Every day we spent together served to cement our relationship.

After that first couple of weeks, I didn’t have to worry that our relationship had been based on our shared experience. While I did realize that without the presence of a stalker in my life, I might never have met Hawk, I knew that if we had met under different circumstances, my attraction for him would have been just as intense.

We did come down from the cabin once that winter, to spend a couple of days over Christmas with his mother. By then, Hawk and I were inseparable. Every time we came within close proximity, I felt his hand on my shoulder, touching my forearm, reaching for my hand. I found myself doing the same. His mother noticed, beamed with pleasure, and nodded in self-satisfaction.

About midway through January, we started talking about heading back into town. I needed to get back to work and so did he. On one particularly cold night when the temperatures drop well below zero, we lay naked and huddled under the bed covers, a crackling fire in the fireplace casting a cozy glow into the cabin. We had made love often during the past weeks, but for some reason, this night felt special to me.

I lay beneath him, his body hovering over me, nestled between my legs, my calves wrapped around his as his lips ravished me. At the moment, he suckled a breast, his tongue wickedly circling my nipple, then sucking on it, then slowly licking it. The hard little nub engorged and reached and ached for more.

In the dull light cast by the fire, I watched him with half-lidded eyes. The scar along his right cheekbone reminded me of how close I had come to losing him.

Nevertheless, I found that thin scar incredibly sexy. Every time he grinned, smiled, or laughed and the scar moved, I felt a clench of muscles deep in my stomach; a combination of intense sexual attraction, insatiable desire, and love. That scar, more than any other scar on his body, reminded me of what Hawk had been willing to sacrifice for me.

My hands skimmed along the smooth flesh of his back, once again reveling and tracing every muscle. My fingers traced the outline of that gorgeous tattoo over his shoulder. His shoulders, wide and rippling with muscles, his skin so hot and smooth. As he worshiped my nipples, the fire deep inside me raged. I unwrapped my legs from his, planted my feet firmly on the mattress, and lifted my hips upward, urging him to take me.

He chuckled low in his throat, sending a shiver of pleasure through me. His tongue slowly and patiently continued its ministrations on my breasts before he shifted his position. His tongue and kisses traced a line down the center of my chest, down my stomach, and then began the slow teasing ritual he had perfected during our voluntary isolation in the cabin.

My pussy felt like it burst into flames, my hips arching upward of their own accord as he began to nibble gently on the flesh of my abdomen. My own scars were plainly visible, and during every bout of lovemaking we had enjoyed since “the incident”, he had always made sure to gently kiss every single scar; on my forearm, underneath my jaw, the thin, fine scar under my left breast, and each one on my thighs.