Wake to Darkness (6 page)

“It’s a rear-wheel-drive behemoth, and it’s an accident waiting to happen. We’re heading into the snow belt. What if we hit a blizzard? Why didn’t you bring the Jeep?”

He sighed. “It’s a clear day, maybe my last chance to drive my baby for the season.”

“Which part of the words
snow belt
did you not understand?”

“You want to take your Subaru, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. You have any objections?”

He lowered his head. “I have to tell you something I’ve never told you before, Rachel.”

Hell, this sounds serious.
I frowned, watching his face. “Go ahead. What is it?”

“I hate your driving.” His head came up, and he was grinning, probably at the way my mouth was hanging open. I clamped it shut. “I don’t mean to insult you, but you scare the hell out of me when you drive.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re always looking at everything but the road.”

“I am not!”

“‘Oh, pretty mountain! Oooh, what kind of bird is that? Hey, look at that cloud.’”

I bit back my automatic defensive response and took a breath. “Try being blind for twenty years and see how much looking you do your first fall, first winter—”

He held up both hands to stop me, midrant. “I
love
the way you see everything like it’s the first time, Rachel. Makes me see things from a fresh perspective myself. It...enhances my every experience just being around you.”

Damn. That was almost poetic.
My anger cooled a degree or two.

“I just
don’t
love being a passenger in a car while you’re doing it. That’s all. You gonna shoot me for that? You wanna use my gun? ’Cause it’s right here—”

“Shut the fuck up, Mason.” I dug my keys out of my pocket, hit the garage door opener button on the key ring, then dropped them into his lap. With his irritatingly perfect reflexes he caught them before they landed.

“You can drive, okay? But we’re taking my car.”

“That sounds fair.”

“You can put your boat in the garage if you want.”

“It’ll be fine outside.” He shut off the engine, dropped his own keys into the ashtray and got out. He had a dark green backpack on the backseat, and he grabbed that and was good to go.

So I let him drive. And yeah, I stayed mad at him for the first hour, until we drove past the wetlands preserve, partially frozen over, and I saw a red-tailed hawk dive-bomb not twenty feet from the highway, then soar up again with something furry in its talons.

“Ohmy
God,
did you see that? That hawk just nailed a freaking squirrel or something. Look, look at it go!” I was pointing and craning my neck. When I looked over at him, he managed to hold back for about three seconds and then he burst out laughing, and I did, too, in spite of myself.

“All right,” I admitted, no longer angry. “I’ll have to try to stop doing that.”

“Don’t
ever
stop doing that. That was amazing, and I never would have even noticed it if you hadn’t been with me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Just...try not to do it when you’re driving.”

I rolled my eyes and returned to watching the passing scenery.

* * *

At Strong Memorial Hospital’s Financial Services Center, Mason made the impossible as easy as 1, 2, 3. He got in to see a patient accounts manager, claiming to be an insurance adjuster and saying he needed to verify some information about the patient who received the kidney on August 17 of this year. Then he shuffled papers looking for the patient’s name while the woman at the desk clicked her keys, bringing up the info. I waited in the hallway outside the office door, and when he sneezed, I walked up the hall a few steps, made sure no one was looking and, with a tissue covering my fingers, pulled the fire alarm.

People poured out of offices left and right, including Mason and the accounts person. I joined the throng moving forward, exclaimed, “My purse!” in case anyone was listening, and ducked into the same office he’d just left. I hurried around the desk, took a quick look at the computer and there it was. The patient’s name and address. Three patients had kidney transplants that day. But only one of them received a left kidney. I scribbled the info on a notepad, jammed it into my pocket, zipped out again with my heart in my throat and caught up with the throng heading for the stairwells. By then someone in charge was telling everyone to stay calm, it was probably a false alarm. Maybe even a prank.

“Fucking kids,” someone muttered.

I saw Mason talking to the woman whose office I’d just left and looking at his watch, making excuses to leave and follow up with her later. Then he entered the stairwell. I passed her in the hall as I went to join him, but there were lots of people heading down and I had to wait until we were outside. He was ahead of me, and he got into my car and started the engine. I hurried the last few steps and hopped in on the passenger side.

“You get it?” he asked.

“Henry C. Powell of Sodus Point, New York. You know where that is?”

“No, but your nav system does.” He poked buttons. “Street?”

“Twenty-five Lake Street.”

He punched a button, then another, and the nav system plotted a route and said it would take less than an hour to reach our destination. “We’re in business. You want to grab a bite first?” It was close to four-thirty, after the two-and-a-half-hour drive out here, and the time we’d spent executing our plan. Flawlessly, I might add. Neither of us had eaten lunch.

“Yeah, but only if it’s a drive-through. I’m kind of eager to check on Mr. Powell.”

“Me, too.”

So we grabbed some fast food and ate while he drove.

An hour later we were cruising slowly along the southern shore of Lake Ontario, which looked more like an ocean than a lake, since you couldn’t see to the other side. The water was dark and moody, deep blue-black, with whitecaps like sharp teeth in the mouth of a monster. The sky matched. Of course, it would be dark in another twenty minutes, so it was already dusky under heavy clouds.

We located number 25. I’d been searching for info on Henry Powell online, via my smartphone, for much of the drive. His Facebook page relationship status was “Single,” and he only had forty-seven friends, despite having posted daily up until about a week ago. He looked pale and pasty in his profile pic, and I imagined that was one of his better photos, because who uses their bad ones, right? Ruddy cheeks and pale blue eyes, blondish hair going gray, a long, horselike face.

“I don’t think he won too many beauty contests.”

“Does it say what he does for a living?” Mason asked.

“Retired. Doesn’t say from what.”

He pulled to a stop on the deserted road. I got a chill but told myself to buck up. We weren’t going to know anything until we got a look inside.

“You stay here, I’ll go check on things.”

“Uh-uh. I need to see the inside of the house, see if it’s the same as the dream.”

“You described it to me. I can tell if it’s—”

“I have to go with you,” I said. “I don’t know why. It’s...personal. Like we’re...related.”

“That’s a stretch, Rache.”

“Too fucking bad, that’s how it feels.” I got out and slammed the door, then started up the recently shoveled walk to the front door of the little lakefront cottage. There was a white door with three diamond-shaped windowpanes, and a big picture window just to the left of it. I hit the doorbell.

“He’s gonna answer the door,” I said with more certainty than I felt. “He’s fine. The whole thing was stress. My imagination could have spun a second murder out of the strands left over from dreaming the first one, right?”

“Right.”

No one answered. The bell was probably broken. I knocked this time. Mason moved away from the door and walked over to that big window that looked out on the lake. “Light’s on. Shit.”

“What?”

“That looks like the ceiling fan you saw in your dream. Palm leaves. Off-white. Window’s too high, though. I can’t see the floor.”

I closed my eyes, knocked harder. “Henry! Henry, are you in there?”

No answer, and I closed my gloved hand around the doorknob, twisted—and it turned.

“The door’s unlocked. I’m going in.”

Mason swore and headed for me, but I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Henry C. Powell was lying on the living room floor, facedown, head turned to one side, shirt torn up the back. There was a gaping hole where his left kidney should have been.

I turned to run outside, pushing past Mason. I was bent over, hands on my knees, gasping and gagging, when Mason came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t puke, okay? We don’t want anyone knowing we were here.”

I gulped air, swallowed. “Neighbors probably already saw the car.”

He kept his hands on me as he looked up and down the narrow road. “Most of these places look empty. They’re seasonal. It’s winter.”

Nodding, I managed to straighten up. “We can’t just leave him there, though.”

“We won’t. We’ll make an anonymous call to the local cops from a rest stop. They’ll take care of him, notify his family. We can’t get you tangled up in this again, Rachel. Last time you were too close to being a suspect.”

“I know.”

“If that happens, we’ll be too busy trying to cover our own asses to keep on digging. And we
have to
keep on digging. No one else can do this.”

“No one else would
believe
this.”

He nodded.

“Mason, someone is harvesting your brother’s organs.”

“Maybe.”

“I have his eyes.”

“Yeah,” he said, staring right into them. And he couldn’t hide his fear.

I knew that fear. Felt it. Times ten. And I didn’t like it any better than he did. He was seeing it in his mind’s eye the same as I was. A horrible vision of him walking in and finding my body on a floor somewhere, with my eyes gouged out of my head.

Talk about a nightmare.

“We need to get you out of town, Rache. Somewhere safe.”

“I’m not even gonna argue,” I told him.

5

Sunday, December 17

B
y the time we got back to my house it was almost midnight. Long drive, no snow, thank goodness. I missed my dog.

Mason got out and, instead of heading for his car, followed me to the front door. I turned around and tried for sarcasm to lighten the heavy mood that had settled over us on the long drive home. “What, you haven’t had enough of me for one day?”

He tried it right back. “Plenty, but I’m crashing on your couch all the same.”

It fell flat in both cases. For most of the ride we’d been more morosely silent than his brooding teenage nephew. My brain was wondering why the hell his damned brother refused to die, while his was probably piecing together clues and extrapolating them into some logical explanation for two murder victims who’d both had their organs harvested—his brother’s organs.

There was only one explanation in my mind. His tweaked-out sibling wanted his body parts back and had figured out a way to take them from beyond the grave. Period. And I was equally sure that meant my eyeballs were probably pretty high on his list. Mason was probably afraid that if he left me alone tonight, he would find me come sunup with two gaping holes in my head. And frankly, I was afraid of that, too.

“Earth to Rachel? Crashing on the sofa. I know I sounded all confident, but I’m still waiting for you to say that’s okay with you.”

“Fine, but unnecessary. I have plenty of bedrooms.”

“I know, but the couch puts me between you and outside.”

So would the left side of my bed.

“Suit yourself,” I said, and unlocked the door and went inside. The alarm panel beside the door started flashing red, warning me that it would start screaming bloody murder if I didn’t enter the code, and fast. I keyed it in while Mason looked over my shoulder. “Amy and Misty did what I told them for a change. Armed it.” I’d called home after our visit with the unfortunate Mr. Powell and instructed them to lock up tonight and set the system. I looked over my shoulder at Mason. He wasn’t smiling.

“Your birthday?” he asked with a nod at the keypad. “Are you shitting me?”

“How the hell do you know my birthday?”

“I think it was in one of your books. Or maybe it was in the background check I ran on you when you looked good for the Wraith killings. Or maybe I have an internet connection and a Google search bar like everybody else in the Western hemisphere.”

He was worried about me. It was kind of sweet. Why did I still want to smack him?

“I wasn’t aware I was in any particular danger when I set the code.”

“You’re a minor celebrity. You’re always in danger.”

“What the fuck do you mean,
minor?
”

He softened up a little. I did, too. Then he opened the panel on the control box and hit a couple of buttons until the screen read “enter code.” The words flashed impatiently at me.

“I wouldn’t have known how to do that in a million years,” I told him.

“Pick a new code, Rache. No one’s birthday, not the last four digits of your phone number or your social, and not four sequential numbers. Make them random.”

“If they’re random, then how the hell am I going to remember them?”

“By repetition. Same way you memorize any other number.”

I scowled and entered the last four digits of my editor’s home phone number. He wouldn’t know that, right?

Right. As evidenced by his nod of approval. He hit another button or two and the thing read “code accepted.” Then the green light went on and the moon returned to its proper orbit around the earth.

“I’m beat,” I said, turning for the stairs, then stopping as my blood went cold. “I wonder why Myrt didn’t come down to greet us?”

He pulled his gun. I wanted to say, “Oh, quit being so melodramatic,” except I knew he wasn’t. After what we’d both seen today, he had good reason to be scared. The fucking organ snatcher would be coming for me, sooner or later, and my niece, best friend and bulldog had been home alone.

I was an idiot to have left them.

Don’t be stupid. I didn’t know... Not for sure, anyway.

I still don’t.

Yeah, I do.

He moved past me and went sneaking up the stairs like a TV cop, gun pointed up at the ceiling. I snagged my favorite baseball bat from the coat closet and hurried to catch up, walking on tiptoe with my heart in my throat, trying not to imagine my sister’s gorgeous daughter with her eyes gouged out of her head because the ghost-killer didn’t know the difference.

We got to the top of the stairs, and I suddenly wondered why the hell we hadn’t turned on the light. There was a switch right there, so I reached for it.

Like a flash, Mason covered my hand with his, stopping me. He had eyes in the back of his freaking head, I thought. But I left the light off and started wishing I had a better weapon than the baseball bat I’d been keeping in that downstairs closet since the last serial killer started fucking up my life.

What the hell was
that
about, anyway? How come I was attracting serial killers like a porch light attracts bugs?

’Cause you’ve got a killer’s eyes in your head, dumbass. Technically, you’re part serial killer yourself.

Mason moved silently down the hall toward my bedroom. The door was open, the night-light I never turned off emitting a soft glow from within. He moved closer, took a quick peek in, ducked back, then took a slower look.

“Grrrruff!”

Myrtle.
The surge of relief that flooded me almost made my knees weak, and I couldn’t wait any longer. I leaned past him and looked into my bedroom.

Misty was lying in my bed, curled up in one corner. Myrt was sprawled everywhere else, somehow making her two-foot-long body take up the entire bed. But her head was up and she was facing us in the doorway, sniffing, ears cocked and alert.

“It’s okay, Myrt, it’s only me.”

She let out a far happier woof, then scrambled to her feet and down the little stairs I’d bought to give her easy bed access. She was at my feet in a second, so I crouched to love her up thoroughly as Mason backtracked and turned on the hall light, allowing me to verify that Misty was alive and well.

I stood up and looked at her.

There was red swelling around her closed eyes that made my heart freeze in my chest.

“Misty!” I lunged to the bed, gripping her shoulders, turning her onto her back, expecting to see blood-soaked pillows and empty eye sockets.

She blinked and scrunched up her face, shielded her squinting eyes and said, “What the hell? Oh, hey, Aunt Rache.”

I frowned and searched her face more closely. Smeared makeup. Red puffy eyes. Tear tracks, not bloodstains. She’d been crying.

“What’s wrong? What happened, Misty?”

She swiped her eyes, and I heard footsteps in the hall and glanced back to see Amy in her Goth girl jammies. “Her douchebag boyfriend dumped her. Hi, Mason.”

“Hello, Amy. Sorry to wake you.”

“He dumped you?” I was dumbfounded. What sort of eighteen-year-old boy dumped a future runway model like my niece?

“After I gave up Christmas in paradise for him,” Misty muttered, and wiped at her eyes again.

“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“He wanted a blow job and she wouldn’t cave,” Amy said.

“Whoa.” Mason was holding up a hand as if to deflect the chick-talk going on in my bedroom.

“When I’m ready for sex, it’ll be a two-way street, not all for the guy. Just like you told me, Aunt Rache.”

“That’s my girl. I didn’t like him, anyway. I promise you, we’re going to have such a great time that you won’t miss the Bahamas at all. Now that you don’t have that lead weight holding you back, we can go somewhere fun.”

She frowned at me, blinking. “We’re going away?”

“Yeah. As soon as Mason and I can get the arrangements made.”

“Mason and you?” She craned her neck to see him around the corner. Myrtle stood at the foot of her portable stairs, waiting to see if it would be worth the effort to climb back into bed or not. “Are you two—”

“No!” Mason and I said simultaneously.

Amy and Misty locked gazes, eyebrows arched and speaking volumes. Misty looked back at me first. “So where are we going?”

“We haven’t decided yet. We’ll talk more tomorrow. Get some sleep. I’ll take the guest room.”

“No way.” Misty flung back the covers and slid out of bed. “You sleep here with the bed-hog dog. I’ll take the guest room.”

She shuffled out of the room, and she and Amy went back down the hall. “Night, Mason. Night, Aunt Rachel,” she called back over her shoulder.

“Good night,” Mason said. And then, loudly enough for them to hear, “I’ll just, uh, grab some blankets for the couch, if you’ll tell me where—”

“Linen closet, third door down,” I said, just as loudly.

Not that they were buying it.

Hell, I wouldn’t have, either.

* * *

Mason couldn’t sleep. He was glad of it, though. He wasn’t there to sleep, and he certainly wasn’t there to slip up the stairs to Rachel’s bedroom and try to talk her into one more go-round for old times’ sake.

He couldn’t very well protect her if he was having sex with her. He knew from experience that his mind would be completely immersed in the task at hand.

Hell, who was he kidding? His mind was already full of her, and he wasn’t even doing anything.

After an hour he got up, wandered into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee, because there was no point trying to sleep. He debated having a snack to go along with it, standing bathed in the light from the open fridge as he looked unseeingly at all the girl-food inside. Yogurt. More fresh fruit, like there wasn’t enough already in the overflowing ornate basket on the counter. Fresh vegetables. Cukes and celery, green peppers, three kinds of lettuce, baby carrots, baby spinach. Where the hell were the deli meat and mayo?

“The rabbit food is for the teenage female upstairs. Check all the way in the back, third shelf, plastic container, blue lid.”

He didn’t jump, just straightened enough to see Rachel over the top of the open fridge door. He’d felt her there about a half a heartbeat before she’d said anything. Or maybe he’d smelled that shampoo she used that always reminded him of a summer beach. Coconut and vanilla bean or something.

She was wearing a snug-fitting T-shirt with Betty Boop on the front, and panties. And socks, he noticed, which made him realize he had just let his eyes take the scenic route all the way down to her toes.

Damn. He ducked behind the door again, digging for the promised container, pulled it out, peered through the plastic. “Is it...chicken?”

“KFC. Extra crispy. And only two days old.”

“And there’s enough for two.” He swung the fridge door closed and took the container to the microwave, peeled back the lid, popped it in, hit a button.

“Should be some sides kicking around in there, too,” she said, and when he turned it was to see her in his former position, leaning into the fridge, only way sexier, especially from behind.

He leaned on the counter and watched as her backside moved in time with her rummaging.

She stopped what she was doing. “Are you staring at my ass?”

“Nope. The panties are in the way.”

“Pig.” She emerged with two more containers. “Potatoes and gravy. And I think there might be some biscuits in the bread box.”

“It’s a veritable feast.”

“It is.” She crossed the kitchen to where he stood, set the containers beside the microwave behind him and looked up into his face. “I can’t reach the plates. They’re...” She trailed off, pointing at the cupboard behind his head.

He clasped her waist in both hands and picked her up. She squeaked, then laughed, then opened the cupboard and took out two plates. When he lowered her again, she slid down the front of him, and he wondered why he was torturing himself like this.

“I’ve really missed you, Rachel.”

“I know.”

He rolled his eyes. Not exactly the reply he’d been hoping for. “We had good reasons for not taking things...where they seemed to be going between us.”

“Yes, we did.” The microwave beeped. She nudged him aside, removed the chicken and put the potatoes and gravy in to heat up next.

“You wanted to experience life as a sighted, independent adult for the first time before cluttering it up with a relationship.”

“Yes, I did.”

She wasn’t contributing much to the conversation, he thought. “And have you done that?”

She pressed her lips together, then turned away so she could put the now-steaming chicken and the two plates on the table. She went to a drawer for utensils and yanked a couple of paper towels off a roll to serve as napkins.

“Live as a sighted adult?” she asked. “Kind of hard not to, since I am one.”

“You know what I mean. Have you been...dating?”

“Have you?” she asked, turning to spear him with her eyes.

He didn’t want to answer. The truth was, he had been trying, but the old Mason, the play-the-field guy he’d been before, seemed to have vanished. He couldn’t find him anywhere. Every woman he took out, all he managed to do was spend the night comparing her to Rachel.

And not entirely unfavorably. Rachel was mouthier, more sarcastic, shorter-tempered, would see right through his bullshit, swore like a sailor....

And yet he always felt like he would rather be with her. Since he couldn’t very well tell her that, he opted to shrug his answer, then took the potatoes and gravy out of the microwave and set them on the table.

Rachel grabbed two big spoons, plopped one into each dish of steaming leftovers and sat down, grabbing the biggest piece of chicken.

“It’s only been a month, Mason.”

“I know. I know.”

“You had reasons, too,” she reminded him. “You were nowhere near ready for anything serious, you said. You had enough on your shoulders with your brother’s kids and your sister-in-law and your mother, and coping with your brother’s death, you said. You needed to keep some small vestige of your private life free and easy, you said.”

“I know.”

“So how’s that been working out for you?” She bit off a hunk of chicken, closed her eyes in approval and chewed like no one was watching.