Web of Smoke (7 page)

The steam from her shower wrapped his scent around her. She made the spray cool and the shower brief. Feeling as pale and drawn as she looked, she dressed in shorts and a blouse and went downstairs for a cup of coffee. The day stretched endlessly before her.

A scrawled note, stuck to the refrigerator with a golf ball-shaped magnet, read,
Christie, I have a couple of lessons this morning. Don’t leave. Sam.

She stared at it, sipping her coffee, listening to the clock tick. Outside, the dogs re-explored Sam’s backyard with wagging tails. Looking around her, she felt depression creep from the shadowed corners. Too much Sam in every room. She’d go crazy waiting here with only remembrance for company.

Making a snap decision, she pushed away from the counter and grabbed the phone. Whether Sam liked it or not, she needed to take care of things. She couldn’t stay here forever and she certainly couldn’t continue living at her house. She needed to move the rest of her things out and find a new place to live.

First, she called a taxi and then the police to find out if, by chance, they’d learned anything since last night. She knew it was probably a waste of time, but she had plenty of it to waste.

The phone at the police station rang twenty-six times before a gruff voice barked, “What?”

Christie explained who she was and why she was calling. Twice while she talked, she heard his hand muffle the mouthpiece and his voice bellow into the background din.

“Is there a point to this, ma’am?” he demanded, cutting her off in mid-sentence.

“Yes. I’m calling to find out if anyone’s been arrested, so I know whether or not it’s safe to go home.”

Without a word he put her on hold and let her simmer in the juices of bureaucracy for interminable minutes before he returned.

“No one’s been booked on that case.”

“Will I be contacted if someone is?”

“Listen, Mrs—”

“McCoy. Christie McCoy.”

“Mrs. McCoy, I’ll level with you. Another kid’s been kidnapped. We’re busting our asses trying to find the guy who took her. We’ll do our best to get someone working on your case, but the kidnappings have priority. Why don’t you hire someone to keep this guy away from you? Just until we wrap things up.”

The harried sympathy in his voice was annoying and certainly held no reassurance. “Maybe I’ll do that,” she said. “Thank you for your time.”

His receiver clicked in her ear. In shock, she stared at the phone before hanging up. So she’d get no protection from the police. All the more reason to get moving. She grabbed Sam’s note and flipped it over to write one of her own. Pen poised, she hesitated. What should she say?
Dear Sam, on the run, see you later?
She glanced at a snapshot propped on the windowsill of the two of them on their honeymoon in Hawaii. She shook her head. How about,
Dear Sam, had to get out or lose my mind?

She settled for,
Be back soon, C.,
and waited for her cab on the front porch with the rental section of the paper. She’d go to her house, load up her car, and find an apartment.

For once she was thankful that she didn’t have much in the house. Deep down, she must have known it would never be home.

And that’s what she needed now. A home. A real home. Not just a pretense. Not just an empty shell she lived in and slept in while mourning the emptiness inside her.

Telling Sam about the moments leading up to her discovery of his affair had brought her heartache bubbling to the surface, sent her emotions swirling in a boiling vat of hurt. She had to get away.

Away from danger.

Away from Sam.

She couldn’t believe how susceptible she still was to Sam’s charm. Five minutes alone under a fat moon and she’d fallen into his arms. Even now, after all that had passed. And living in Sam’s house was seduction in itself. It would only be a matter of time before he’d have her smiling, laughing . . . forgiving him.

What future was there in that?

He’d destroyed a piece of her four months ago. “It didn’t mean anything, Chris. I don’t even know her. I was mad. I was drunk. I was stupid.” He’d confessed this to Christie, as if it would make everything better. What it did was tell Christie how easily he’d tossed away his marriage and commitment. She couldn’t forgive it.

Her mother had been the kind of woman to look the other way or to believe mealymouthed excuses. But not Christie.

She sighed, watching the woman across the street try not to watch Christie. Nosy lady. Christie opened her paper and hid behind it. Columns of rentals blurred before her eyes. Determined, she focused and circled a few.

She’d feel better in a new home, but she knew she wouldn’t feel safe.

Safe. When was the last time she’d felt that?

She shivered, remembering back to the months before her mother’s death. She hadn’t felt safe then, either. Then there had been another man, a different man she’d had to fear. A man so terrifying to her that to even think of him sent cold chills down her spine and furtive glances over her shoulder.

A man who somehow reminded her of last night’s attacker….

She stopped the thought short. That was crazy. The man from the past looked nothing like the one who stalked her now.

But in her mind she could hear both men’s voices, one an eerie echo of the other….

And the man from the past
had
promised he’d be back for her.

Four months had passed since he’d made that chilling vow. Four months and a lifetime in which she’d pretended she had nothing to fear.

And she was still pretending.

The taxi pulled to the curb unnoticed and honked, jerking her back to the present. Back to reality.

Settled in the backseat, she closed the door on the past, concentrating on the paper until they stopped in her driveway. Paying the driver, she got out and stared up at her house.

A house, not a home. Even before the attacks had ripped all sense of security away, she’d never called it home. The only homey things that had ever existed in it were the dogs, and now one of them was gone forever. She went inside, feeling the empty rooms mock her.

She shivered, imagining again
his
icy glare traveling up her body. He wouldn’t return to this house today. Somehow she knew it. But she hadn’t seen the last of him either.

Her tennis shoes squeaked against the tile as she walked to the kitchen. Someone had been out to repair the sliding door that morning, but broken glass still littered the floor. The sight of it brought a fresh wave of fear.

Don’t get too comfy, Christie. No place is safe for you now that I’m back.

The intrusive thought, its edges as sharp as the jagged pieces of glass clinging to the kitchen floor, bombarded her mind.

Stop it, Christie!

The man who’d broken into her house twice now couldn’t be the same man who…. The similarities were a coincidence, one of those twisted quirks of fate. She refused to allow herself to think any differently. She had enough to worry about today without torturing herself with fears from yesterday.

The silent kitchen still smelled of bleach and violence. She went outside to the backyard and gulped at the fresh, fragrant afternoon air. In the distance, a lawn mower whined. Stuffing her hands into her pockets, she circled around to the side yard. Even though she didn’t want to see them, something compelled her to look for the footprints the police had told her were left when
he’d
jumped the fence.

Like a scar, the ground still bore the mark of his passage. She followed the prints to the garage door and stared at the plastic flap.

No one had thought of the doggie door after the first attack. All the locks in the world didn’t matter if
he
could pass
through
the door.

Curious, she got on her hands and knees and shimmied through the opening with incredible ease. Sitting on the cold concrete garage floor, she drew her knees under her chin and rocked. The dimness felt cool against her burning eyes.

In the corner beside her, Christie saw Barney’s old tennis ball. She picked it up and bounced it against the wall. The
whock-whock
sound it made soothed her. Her last shot ricocheted off a wooden beam and the ball shot into the opposite corner.

She stood, shaking the stiffness from her legs. Crossing to the kitchen door, she checked the second dog’s entrance to make sure it was still sealed off from the inside.

She turned to leave when a glimmer beside the door caught her eye. It sparkled in the thin, dust-filled sunlight, gleaming from the dirty pile of lint that clung to the floor. Looking closer, she saw a small key and picked it up.

All at once, the garage seemed dark and ominous and the atmosphere inside, tainted and thin. She opened the door and hurried outside. A hot, teasing breeze billowed her blouse.

In the glaring sunshine, she examined the tiny key, noticing an inscription on the top.
Musclemen
#5. Musclemen Gym? A locker key? Going back into the house, she gripped it in her hand. It could have been lost by any number of people. The people who’d lived in this house before. One of the officers searching the scene of the crime.

Or last night’s attacker, she thought, remembering his wiry muscles.

In the kitchen, Christie dialed information and got the gym’s phone number. A friendly male voice answered on the third ring.

“Musclemen.”

“Yes, hello, ah—Could you tell me where you’re located?”

“Imperial Beach,” he said with obvious hesitation.

“What are your hours?”

“Five a.m. to eleven p.m.—but this is a men’s gym, ma’am.”

“What?”

“Men only—sorry.”

“Oh.” She paused a split second. “I’m calling…for my husband. He wanted me to contact you about his locker key. He lost it and I think I just found it,” she lied. “If I give you the number can you look it up and tell me the name—”

“Can’t do it, ma’am. Sorry.”

Why not?
she wanted to demand, but afraid she’d give her deception away, she backed off and politely tried again.

“Okay. How about I come down and try it? If it fits, then obviously it’s the key, right?”

“Sorry, ma’am,” the voice said pleasantly but firmly. “Men’s gym means men’s gym. No women allowed in the locker rooms.”

“Isn’t that a little strict?” she said, barely disguising her exasperation. “I’d only be a minute.”

“The guys here pay for strict. They’re serious bodybuilders.”

Christie chewed her lip. “I see. Could I come there and give you the key and—”

“Sorry again. I don’t touch the lockers. Policy.”

“How about if I send my brother?” She sounded huffy and she knew it. Wasn’t there a discrimination law or something about this kind of thing?

“As long as he has a key, there’s no problem.”

“Okay. Well, thank you for your help.”

“Sure thing.”

Chapter Eight

A gritty breeze, armed by the scorching-hot afternoon sun, gusted through the open windows of DC’s car. This far inland, even the shade tree he’d parked under offered little sanctuary from the heat. He shifted uncomfortably, pulling his soaking shirt away from his sweaty chest. A glaze of salt and grit coated his face.

With an unobstructed view of the preschool, DC sat cleaning his nails with the tip of a neatly curved hunting knife. The action required concentration and it calmed him. He needed calm. He needed focus.

He needed to get his mind off Christie McCoy.

But he couldn’t help himself. Every woman that crossed his line of vision reminded him of her. Since the first time he’d laid eyes on Christie, he’d been consumed with thoughts of her beneath him, above him, wrapped around him.

He nicked his thumb with the knife and cursed softly. Forget Christie, he told himself. It was her mother he needed to find. He’d be much better once he caught up with Mary Jane. She had the same scent as her daughter, Christie, and when he closed his eyes, it was easy for DC to imagine that he was holding the younger version. So far, though, he hadn’t been able to find Mary Jane and it worried him. She was the only person who ever gave a shit about him.

He shifted in his seat. What if she’d left town? When he’d gone to the house that they’d shared in La Mesa, her things had all been gone. At first he’d assumed she’d moved to the new house. The house in La Jolla. But there he’d only found Christie, and with Christie, trouble.

DC leaned his head against the seat. He wasn’t going to think of Christie again. It was her fault he’d had to leave San Diego. Her fault that her mother had quit looking at him with love and started staring with disgust.

Now both of them hated him and he couldn’t leave either one of them alone.

But where was Mary Jane?

Across the street at PalmValley, parents began to arrive. In ones and sometimes twos, kids left hand in hand with their mommies and daddies.

Sheathing his knife in its leather sleeve, DC turned his attention to the preschool. He watched the girls who came out, playing a little guessing game to keep his mind occupied while killing time.

Which one was Jessica?
He measured the name to each ponytailed youngster who trotted out the door.

That one? Maybe.

Defiant of the blistering sun, insane little children romped on the playground to his right. Wild monkeys, swinging on the jungle gym and screaming down the slides. On the air, the children’s laughter whirled through his open window, the sound alien to him. He hadn’t laughed much when he was a kid. Hadn’t had much to laugh about.

Snapping a fat blue rubber band off the rearview mirror, he wove it through his fingers, and settled down to wait.

* * *

“Jesus, I’m a jerk,” Sam mumbled to himself as he gave his watch a surreptitious glance. How could he have been so stupid as to come to work today?

“What did you say?” his student asked, pulling her gaze from the yardage markers on the Padre Trails Country Club’s driving range.

“I said, go ahead and hit it.”