Bone Cold (21 page)

Monday, January 29
10:20 p.m.

B
en awakened to find his mother staring at him the way she did sometimes, her face ashen, her lips a bloodless pink. Although disconcerting, he had learned to ignore such manifestations of her illness. Because Alzheimer's victims floated in and out of cognizance, they were easily startled and upset.

He straightened and the book in his lap slipped to the floor. “Sorry, Mom,” he murmured, rolling his shoulders, then reaching for the book. “I should know better than to try to read to you after such a long day. The sound of my own voice puts me to sleep every time.” He made a face. “I can only imagine what it does to my patients.”

“He was here,” she said suddenly. “That man.”

Ben came instantly, completely awake. He looked at her. “Who? What man?”

She shook her head. “That devil. He was here. While you slept.”

A man was here, in this room, while he slept?
He
doubted it, though when he fell asleep, he was out cold. Ben narrowed his eyes, studying his mother, seeing real fear in her eyes. “I don't know this man you're talking about. Is he someone you know from here?”

She began to tremble. “No. He's a bad man.”

“A bad man,” Ben repeated, concerned. “Why is he bad?”

“He wants to hurt you. He wants to hurt me. He said he was going to.”

Ben frowned and stood. All visitors were required to check in at the front desk. “You sit tight, Mom. I'm going to have a little talk with the nurse on duty.”

“I told him you wouldn't let him hurt me. But he only laughed. He said you couldn't stop him.” Growing agitated, she began plucking the front of her robe, picking at a piece of the eyelet. “He's stronger than you, he said. More powerful.”

Ben bent and kissed the top of her head, then smiled reassuringly at her, not letting his worry show. “We'll just see about that. Sit tight, I'll be right back.”

He left her room and headed for the nurses' station at the end of the hall. He found the nurse and her two aides there, chatting. One had her shoes off and was rubbing her feet.

“Hey, ladies,” he said, smiling at the women. “Got a question, has anyone been in to see my mother tonight besides me?”

They looked confused and he smiled again. “I dozed off while I was reading to Mom. She said a guy came into her room while I was asleep and threatened her.”

“One of the residents?”

“No. She said he's not someone she knows from here.”

The women looked at each other, then Wanda, the
R.N., shook her head. “Nobody's been in or out of the facility since eight.”

Ben pursed his lips in thought. “How about the past few weeks? She says this man's been in to see her before.”

“Let me check the log.” Wanda stood, crossed to the desk and took out the logbook. The entries were listed both by the visitor name and resident's name. Several moments passed as she scanned and flipped the pages, going backward in time. “Last week Father Ray was here to see her. Dr. Levine was in the day before that. A couple of teenage girls, volunteers from the Sacred Heart Academy.” She flipped a couple more pages, then stopped. “That's two weeks, and other than you, Father Ray, Dr. Levine and the girls, no one's been in to see your mother. Oh, and she had her hair done Monday. Shelley did it.”

He drew his eyebrows together. “She's quite upset. In fact, she—”

From down the hall came a crash, then wailing. Ben swung in the direction the sound had come, then looked at Wanda, alarmed. “That's Mom.”

Wanda came around the counter in a flash; they both bolted for his mother's room.

They found her on the floor beside her bed, knees to her chest, rocking and weeping. “I tried to stop him!” she cried when she saw Ben. “I tried. See—” She pointed.

Ben looked in the direction she indicated. She had hurled a vase at the dresser. The crash they'd heard had been the vase connecting with the items on the top of the dresser: her toiletries, framed photos, a porcelain figurine.

He went to her, crouched down and drew her into his
arms. She shook with the force of her despair, her body frail and birdlike in his arms.

“I see, Mom,” he murmured, voice thick. “It's okay now, sweetheart, everything's going to be okay.”

 

Thirty minutes later, Ben crossed the nursing-home parking lot, heading to his car. He sighed and looked up at the black sky, heart heavy and aching. He hated to see his mother this way, hated to see her failing so fast.

He was losing her. One day in the not so distant future, he would come to see her and she wouldn't recognize him. Her world would be populated by strangers, caregivers and menacing figures like the one tonight.

Why her? he wondered. She had worked so hard her whole life: to give him a good home; a normal childhood despite his having no father; to make sure he felt loved. She had been not only his mother, but his champion and friend as well. She didn't deserve this.

Ben swallowed hard. His uncle had died a few years back and although they hadn't been close, he had been family. When his mother went, he would be alone. No family. No one to call his own.

He thought of Anna suddenly. Her image filled his head and senses, and a smile touched his mouth. He had called her the other morning, immediately after Detective Malone had left. He'd told her about his home being broken into and about the package that had been left for him.

She had been shaken. Angry. Not so much at him as at the situation. He had promised her he wouldn't rest until he had discovered which of his patients was to blame, he had filled her in on the progress he had made so far.

He hadn't spoken with her since. He missed her.

Ben glanced at his watch and saw with regret that it was too late to call her. He wished it wasn't. He would have liked to talk with her about his mother. His feelings. She would have understood. That's the way she was.

He was falling in love with her. It seemed impossible—they had only known each other a couple weeks. But it was true. It both exhilarated and frightened him, made him feel like running for cover—and walking on air.

He reached his car and saw that someone had tucked a flyer under the driver's-side windshield wiper. Ben yanked it out and stopped short.

Not a flyer. A message:

You're falling in love with her.

She's going to die tonight.

Ben went cold. Fear grabbed him by the throat and he began to sweat.

Not Anna. No, not her.

He unlocked the car and slid inside. Simultaneously, he shoved the key in the ignition and reached for his cell phone. The engine roared to life and he punched in Anna's number.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. Heart thundering, he waited, counting the rings, praying. Anna didn't pick up. Neither did her answering machine.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

She's going to die tonight.

Cursing under his breath, Ben threw the sedan into gear and tore out of the parking lot, the back end fish-tailing, spewing gravel. He had to warn her. Protect her. If she wasn't home, he would stand sentinel at her front gate until she returned. He wasn't about to let
this maniac harm a hair on her head. And if he did, Ben would rip him apart at the seams. He swore that he would.

Monday, January 29
11:50 p.m.

A
nna awakened out of a deep sleep. She opened her eyes, instantly terrified. Her bedside light was off, her bedroom bathed in total darkness. She stared at the room's corners, the darkest and deepest of the shadows, her imagination taking flight and creating monsters with names she knew.

Kurt.

Immobilized by fear, she lay stone still, listening, heart lodged in her throat. The silence deafened. It roared. Marshaling her every ounce of control, she turned her head toward the nightstand and the glowing dial of her alarm clock. Midnight. Almost.

From somewhere in the apartment came a sound. Unrecognizable. Uninvited.

She wasn't alone.

Her terror took shape, settling over her like a leaden blanket, and she struggled to breathe under its suffocating weight. She began to sweat. Her pulse to race. She closed her eyes and forced herself to focus—on pulling
air in and pushing it out, with each breath attempting to wrest control of her body from the grip of fear.

Finally, her body responded. As quietly as possible, she shifted onto her side and reached for the bedside phone.

It wasn't there.

She remembered. She had taken a call from Dalton shortly before bed. She had carried the portable into the bathroom and left it there.

A cry rose to her throat. She fought it back, struggling against what she knew was irrational. Tonight was no different than the hundreds of other nights she had awakened certain Kurt had found her.

He hadn't. Like all those other nights, a dream had awakened her. An ugly memory, an old terror. Gone but not forgotten.

Climb out of bed, she told herself. Walk to the bedroom door and through it, retrieve the phone. She would feel safe then, she told herself. She would go back to sleep. Everything would be fine.

Anna slid back the blankets, eased into a sitting position, then swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet and she shivered.

Too cold, she realized. She glanced toward the French doors that led to the balcony and courtyard below. The curtain stirred. She stared at the filmy fabric; the rustling came again, followed by a thread of cold, damp air that slithered across her feet and curled around her ankles.

The French door was open.

With a cry of pure terror she darted for the bedroom doorway. As she neared it, the door slammed shut and strong arms circled her from behind, one at her middle,
one at her throat. He hauled her against his chest and dragged her backward, toward the bed.

The arm at her throat tightened, cutting off her air. She clawed at it, pinpoints of light dancing before her eyes. Weakening from lack of oxygen, she thrashed and kicked out, her attempts feeble at best.

His grip loosened, but even as she gobbled in a lungful of air she found herself being pushed face first onto the bed. In a flash he was on top of her, a hand pressed to the back of her neck, a knee digging into her lower back, immobilizing her. He tore at her nightclothes, as if in a kind of feeding frenzy, making wet guttural sounds as he did.

A litany of pleadings, denials and prayers played through her head, deafening and desperate. He meant to rape her. The way those other women had been raped. Then he was going to kill her. The way those other two women had been killed. Redheads. Just like her.

The back of her gown gave. The ripping sound sawed along her nerve endings. Anna started to sob, the tears bubbling up out of her in increasing intensity. He went for her panties, curling his fingers around the waistband and yanking them away.

In one move, he flipped her over and shoved her legs apart. She saw then that he was masked in one of the pale, expressionless masks favored by the Mardi Gras krewe riders. She sensed his smile, his revelry in her terror, her pain. She felt his pure evil.

“Ready or not,” he muttered, “here I come.”

Her thoughts went careening back in time. Back twenty-three years.
Timmy lay in an unmoving heap on the cot. Now it was her turn. Kurt turned and started for her, wire cutters in his hand, lips twisted into a cold smile.

“Ready or not, here I come.”

A scream rose in Anna's throat. Dragged from the center of her being, it ripped through her bedroom, echoing off the walls and into the darkness. It was followed by another, then another. Her attacker froze. He shifted his masked face and for the first time looked her directly in the eyes. His were orange. Like a tiger's. Or a devil's.

She screamed again. He leaped off her and was gone, out the way he had come—through the French doors, over the balcony and down.

Still screaming, the sounds ripping from her like a car alarm gone haywire, she scrambled off the bed and raced out of the bedroom and to her front door. Forgetting her nakedness, she yanked it open.

Dalton was there, in the hall outside her door. With a cry, she fell headlong into his arms.

Tuesday, January 30
12:45 a.m.

F
orty minutes later, Anna sat huddled on her couch, her hands curled around a cup of hot herbal tea, teeth chattering. Dalton sat beside her, Bill hovered protectively behind, both their expressions grim. From her bedroom came the sounds of Malone, a couple of other detectives and the evidence collection team, who had arrived only a few minutes ago. They would dust for fingerprints, Malone had said. Look for any other kind of latent or trace evidence.

Malone had arrived first, within minutes of Dalton's call. Still hysterical, she had relayed what she had been able to, enough to give him the gist of what had happened. He'd called a couple of other detectives from his district and then the evidence team.

Anna looked down at herself. She wore Dalton's sweater and a pair of sweatpants he had dug out of her dresser for her. She glanced toward the doorway to her bedroom where her tattered nightgown lay in an ob
scene heap. Her panties lay there also, somewhere nearer the bed.

Naked.
She had been naked when she ripped open her bedroom door and stumbled into Dalton's arms. A stranger had torn away her garments. He had touched her. Had tried to take by force the most private part of herself.

She had been saved. Her desperate pleas and prayers had been answered.

But would she ever feel clean—or safe—again?

She shuddered, a small whimper slipping past her lips. As if reading her thoughts, Dalton put his arm around her, squeezing gently. She glanced at him; he didn't speak, he didn't have to. The love and concern in his eyes said everything she needed to know.

Malone emerged from the bedroom, the other detectives with him. Anna met his gaze and a calm slipped over her, a feeling of safety. A feeling that with Malone around, nothing bad could touch her. With the feeling came the longing to stand and move into his arms. And have him hold her.

She would be warm then. She would be safe.

Without breaking eye contact, he crossed to her. He crouched down in front of her, balancing on the balls of his feet, hands resting on his knees. He searched her gaze. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, though she wasn't okay. Not by a long shot.

“Good.” He motioned the other detectives. “Agnew and Davis are going to canvas the building and neighborhood, ring doorbells, see if anyone heard or saw anything.”

She nodded again, lowering her gaze to his hands, noticing their shape, that is fingers were long, blunt-
tipped and immaculately groomed. He had nice hands, she thought. Masculine. Quick, she would bet. Agile.

“Anna?”

She returned her gaze to his, cheeks heating. “I'm sorry, what?”

“He entered your apartment by way of the balcony. I believed he came over the courtyard wall, then scaled the wall to your balcony and its French doors. He broke a pane of glass, reached inside and unlocked the dead bolt.”

“So much for all those fancy new locks,” Dalton muttered.

Quentin looked at the other man. “You installed the dead bolt?”

“Had them installed,” he corrected. “After the finger incident. Actually, I had dead-bolt locks added to every courtyard door in the building.”

“And I had my locks changed,” Anna whispered. “A lot of good it did me.”

Quentin returned his attention to her. “I need to ask you a few questions. Think you're up to that?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Good.”

He took his spiral from his jacket pocket. “Let's go through it from the top. Tell me everything you remember, even if you think it's totally irrelevant. Okay?”

She nodded, then began, voice halting. She told him about waking up, being frightened, trying to calm herself, then realizing the French door was open.

“I ran then, toward the door.” Her voice began to shake. “He caught me…he dragged me…back to the…to the—”

Unable to finish, he helped her out. “The bed, Anna?”

“Yes.”

Dalton pulled her closer and Bill laid his hands on her shoulders. She let out a trembling breath, tried to continue but found she couldn't. The words lodged painfully in her throat even as the events of the night replayed in her head, like reccurring frames of a horror flick, one she couldn't walk out of.

“Anna,” Malone murmured, voice gentle but firm, “look at me. Only at me.” She did and as their gazes locked she again experienced a sense of calm move over and through her. “You're safe now,” he said. “I'm going to keep you safe. But I need your help. Take a deep breath and talk to me.”

She found the words then, though they sometimes tumbled out of her in a garbled rush, other times in a painfully halting crawl. Never taking her gaze off Malone's, she relayed how the man had torn off her clothes, the moment she had realized that he meant to rape her, and how she had screamed.

“You were facedown on the bed the whole time?”

“No, he…he turned me over.”

“You saw his face?”

She shook her head. “He was masked. One of those Mardi Gras masks, like the krewe riders wear. But I saw his eyes. They were orange.”

Malone frowned. “Orange?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but they were.” She opened her mouth to tell him the rest, then shut it, pressing her trembling lips together.

Ready or not, here I come.

She hadn't said those words aloud in twenty-three years. Not since she had sat across from the FBI agents, a traumatized child clinging to her parents.

“Go on, Anna. Tell me everything.”

She took a fortifying breath, then began. “It was Kurt, Quentin. It was him.”

Dalton squeezed her hand. “Oh, Anna…honey—”

“It was!” She glanced over her shoulder at Bill, searching for an ally. “It was him. His voice…what he—”

“Excuse me, Detective?”

An expression of frustration on his face, Malone turned toward the bedroom doorway and the team of criminalists. “What?” he snapped.

The other officer looked unconcerned about Malone's obvious ire. “We're done in here. If you don't have anything else, we'll head back to the lab.”

“Do that. Call me in the morning.”

“Will do.” The men headed out, tromping through the center of the living room, not glancing Anna's way.

When they had exited the apartment, Malone turned back to her. “Let's jump forward in time for a moment.” He glanced at his notebook and the notes he had taken earlier, then back up at her. “You screamed and your attacker bolted? He darted out onto your bedroom balcony and went over the side?” She nodded and he went on. “Then you ran from your bedroom to your front door. You yanked it open and Dalton was there, waiting. Is that right?”

Before she could answer, Dalton jumped in. “I wasn't waiting. I'd been out—”

“Walking Judy and Boo,” Bill offered.

“Our dogs. I opened our apartment door and bent to unleash the babies—”

“And he heard Anna scream.”

“Right.”

Malone shifted his gaze to Bill. “And where were you?”

“Watching TV.” He paused. “Inside.”

“Do you always stay behind when Dalton takes your…babies out?”

Bill stiffened, Anna felt it and glanced apologetically up at him. “Not typically. But
Mysteries and Scandals
was on and—”

“He loves that show,” Dalton murmured. “I didn't mind going out alone. He's done it for me hundreds of times.”

Malone's gaze didn't waver from Bill. “
Mysteries and Scandals,
that's an E! show, isn't it?”

“It is.” Bill had grown unnaturally still, and Anna shifted in her seat. “The best-quality fluff.”

“Cotton candy for your brain.” Malone smiled and shifted his gaze to Anna. “Wasn't that the network that ran your mother's interview?”

Anna's heart began to pound. She saw what Malone was doing and didn't like it. Obviously, Dalton did also because his face was flushed with color. “Are you suggesting that Bill—”

“I'm not suggesting anything,” Malone murmured, expression unchanging. “I'm simply trying to get an accurate picture of what happened here tonight. Is that a problem?”

“Of course not,” Bill said, though with an edge in his voice. “I love Anna. I'll do anything I can to help.”

“As would I,” Dalton offered primly.

“I appreciate that.” Malone looked at Anna. “I'd like to speak with you privately. Would that be possible?”

She hesitated. “Dalton and Bill are my best friends, there's nothing I can't say in front of them.”

“Of course. However, I have to insist.” He shifted his gaze to the two men. “You understand, fellas. Don't you?”

They didn't. Clearly. She frowned. “Malone—”

“It's okay, Anna.” Dalton squeezed her hands, then released them and stood. “The man's got a job to do. Call us, okay?”

Bill bent and kissed the top of her head. “We're right next door. I can sleep on your couch, it's not a problem.”

“Or you can sleep on ours,” Dalton offered. “We're here for you, hon.”

She thanked them both and watched them go, feeling for all the world like she was being abandoned.

As if reading her thoughts, Malone murmured, “You can call them right back over. I wanted you to feel free to answer my next questions without an audience.”

“Why?” she asked defiantly. “Surely you don't think Dalton or Bill would harm me? Because I can assure you they wouldn't.”

“You're positive of that? You'd bet your life on it?”

She hesitated a fraction of a moment, then heat flooded her cheeks. “Yes. I'd bet my life on it. I want you to leave them alone.”

“Sorry, Anna. Can't do it. Not unless the facts indicate they are just what they seem to be.”

She kept her gaze unwaveringly on his. “They are.”

“So, you're positive it wasn't Bill in your bedroom tonight?”

“Bill?” The thought brought a hysterical laugh to her lips. “Please.”

“You didn't answer my question, Anna. Are you certain?”

“Yes. Positive.”

“As positive as your mother and father were that your father's nurse wasn't involved in your kidnapping?”

She caught her breath. “Stop trying to scare me.”

“Bill's in good shape. He works out?”

“Yes. And runs.” She shivered and rubbed his arms. “He was an athlete in college. Track and field.”

“Really? How old is he?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Not twenty. But still in his prime.”

“You're wrong, Malone.” She hugged herself. “You are.”

“Think about it, Anna. Dalton was standing in the hall outside your apartment. Why?”

“He was walking Judy and Boo.”

“Did you see the dogs? Was he holding their leads?”

She didn't recall. She closed her eyes, trying to remember. Judy and Boo were yippy little things—all bark and no bite. A lot of bark. She didn't recall hearing them, but still that didn't mean they hadn't been there. “I don't know…I was upset. Screaming. I…don't remember.”

“When did Bill arrive on the scene?”

“I…a few minutes later.”

“How many?”

“I'm not sure…two or three. Five.”

“Did Dalton call him?”

She shook her head. “This is a small building, sounds carry.”

“Anybody else show up? Other neighbors?”

“A few. Bill shooed them away.”

“When did your friends learn the truth about your past?”

“The same day everybody else I know did. They received the note about the E! program and a book.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“Yes!” She started to shake. “Why do you ask? What are you thinking?”

“I don't think anything. Yet.” He lowered his eyes to his notepad, then returned his attention to her. “What
was Bill and Dalton's reaction to learning you were Harlow Grail?”

“They were surprised. Supportive. Concerned for me and what I was going through.” She looked directly into his eyes. “I was grateful for their support. I still am.”

“I understand.” He jotted in his spiral, flipped it shut and tucked it into his pocket. He stood and looked down at her. “You need to be particularly careful, Anna. Make sure all your doors and windows are secure. Don't walk alone at night. Don't become lost in thought, stay aware of your surroundings and what's going on around you.”

She tipped her face up to his. “I'm frightened.”

“I know.” His expression softened. “It's going to be okay.”

“Do you have a…a theory about who or—”

“No, not yet.” He fell silent a moment. “This could be a random act of violence. Or not.”

Anna twisted her fingers together in her lap. “The two women killed…the ones who—” She sucked in a deep breath. “They were both redheads.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think it could have been him who—”

“Broke in here tonight? The MO's wrong, but I'm not eliminating the possibility.”

“Because of my hair.”

“Yes.”

Silence fell between them and Malone cleared his throat. “I guess that's it. If you want to call someone to come over, I can hang around until—”

“I'm okay.” She glanced down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, then back up at him. “I can't expect my friends to baby-sit me.”

He squatted down in front of her once more and searched her gaze, the expression in his sympathetic.
“You don't have to be strong yet, Anna. Not all at once. Give yourself a little time.”

“How long?” Her vision swam. “Twenty-three years, maybe?”

He cupped her cheek in his palm. “I'm sorry, Anna. I am.”

His touch was a shock to her system. She tipped her face into his caress, drawn to his warmth, the comfort he offered. For the space of several heartbeats, she didn't speak. Didn't move. She couldn't.