Desperate Choices (11 page)

He could feel her body tense. Knew it would only be moments before she found her release.

“Come for me, baby. Let it go. That’s it.” He increased the movements of his hips, bucking wildly, driving into her, flesh meeting flesh. She raised a fist to her mouth, muffling her screams as she came. One, two, three strokes more and he joined her, calling out her name.

Slowly Theresa slid off to lie beside him. One hand curled on his chest, she leaned forward to brush a kiss across his lips.

“That was incredible.”

Releasing his death grip on the headboard, Max pulled her close against his side. Smoothing the hair from around the sides of her face, he tucked it behind her ear, looking her in the eyes. Bending forward, he brushed a soft, wet kiss across her passion-swollen lips.

A smile flitted across his mouth as he whispered, “Now it’s my turn.”

Theresa smiled almost the entire drive back to New Orleans the next afternoon. Max made love to her all night long, like a starving man feasting upon his last meal. After the first time, when he had relinquished control to her, most of her fears were alleviated.

It took the edge of urgency off Max, too. The second time they made love had been slow and sweet, with such tenderness it brought tears to her eyes just remembering.

They showered, bathing each other, trading kisses and caresses and washing each other’s bodies. Afterward they’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms.

Just after dawn, Max awakened her with kisses, and brought her to an orgasm that exploded through her, rocking her body with wave after wave of pleasure.

They stayed in the motel room much later than they’d planned, waiting for the service station to call. Now they were back in the repaired truck, heading for New Orleans.

Theresa had something to tell Max, but with everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours she’d forgotten.

“Max, before you picked me up yesterday, I was focusing on Tommy. Remy came by for coffee, and I forgot to tell you.”

“What was it?”

“It’s not much really. I saw gray walls. From the shape and texture, they looked like cinderblocks, the kind used in construction. The floor was gray, too, but a shinier, smoother texture. It was almost like what I’d picture a basement to look like, but we don’t have basements in Louisiana.”

Max’s eyes narrowed in concentration, his hands tightening on the steering wheel, his focus never leaving the highway. “No we don’t, do we? And cinderblocks are used all throughout the South in construction, not just Louisiana.” He reached across and squeezed her hand. “I know you’re trying, hon. We’ll find him.”

Unbuckling her seatbelt, Theresa slid across the bench seat to lean her head against Max’s shoulder.

“I just feel so useless. I blocked my psychic abilities for so long, hated them. Maybe if I hadn’t, they’d be stronger and I could find him.”

“It’s not your fault. You’re not the sick freak who took a helpless kid.” He angled his head around to brush a kiss across her forehead.

“We’ve still got a way to go yet, why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

Closing her eyes, she relaxed and after a few minutes let sleep overtake her.

***

Theresa knew she was dreaming. The sights, sounds and smells were all two-dimensional, muddied yet somehow familiar. She sat at the scarf-covered table in her store. It was closed. Only a single beam of light shone from the kitchen behind her shop. During working hours she always kept that door shut, but it was cracked open now. Across from her a young man paced, wringing his hands.

Cut in the style popular with teenagers—very short on the sides, long on the top—his hair hung straight down and kept flopping into his eyes. He reached up to brush it back, when she noticed bloody scratches on his hands and his ragged, broken nails. His faded navy blue T-shirt was ripped, the collar torn, hanging off one shoulder.

“You’ve got to help them.” Desperation rang with each word. Again he wrung his hands together, anxious. His gaze flitted around the room, looking at all the things scattered throughout the shop, never meeting her eyes. “He’s gonna hurt them.”

“Them? Who are you talking about?”

“Them. Tommy Saunders and the girl.”

“Tommy’s missing. We’re looking for him.”

Level with hers, his eyes burned with a feverish gleam. “Try harder. If you don’t get him soon, he’s gonna kill them. Just like he killed me.”

The boy turned around and walked a few steps away from the table. That’s when she saw it. Blood. Thick and dark, matted across the back of his head, a massive ugly wound, clear evidence of a trauma.

There wasn’t a doubt in her mind. He was dead. She’d never talked to a dead person in her vision dreams before. And yet, she felt calm, detached. Who was this ghost?

“You keep saying them. This person who has Tommy, he has somebody else, too? Who is he? How do we find him?”

The ghost or spirit—whatever this apparition was—nodded his head.

“He has Tommy and a girl. You’ve got to find them, before it’s too late. Help them—so you can help me, too.”

Just like that he was gone, leaving her alone in the shop. She needed to wake up and tell Max they had to hurry. She couldn’t let Tommy die, too. If this madman had already killed once, time was running out.

***

For the last few minutes Theresa had been moaning in her sleep, jerking restlessly. Max debated whether he should pull over and wake her up. They hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. He couldn’t hold back a smile at the reason why. He’d go without sleep again, if he could spend another night like the previous one.

Abruptly Theresa sat upright, flinging herself forward. He barely had time to reach his right arm in front of her and brace her body to keep her from smacking head-first into the dashboard of the truck. Her breathing was rapid, her eyes glassy.

Easing on the brake, he pulled onto the paved roadside, as traffic continued speeding by. He slammed the gearshift into park before turning to face her.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

“Tommy’s in danger.” She blew wisps of hair out of her face, where it had been flung with her forward momentum. “I had a dream. A boy warned me that a crazy man has him and a young girl, and their time is running out.” She pressed her lips together, and clenched and loosened her fingers before facing Max again.

“He said this person is going to hurt them, maybe even kill them. He said the man had killed him. He was dead, Max. The back of his head was covered in blood. Lots of blood. I’ve had vision dreams before, not for a long time, but this was the most real, the most intense.”

Had she been anyone else Max would have offered her a drink and called a shrink. But this was Theresa. “Vision dreams? What are those?”

“It’s what I call them. Sometimes when I touch something, I get a sense about it, either about who owned it, what it’s been used for. Like Tommy’s cell phone. But these dreams are
something else. Sometimes when I have a dream, it will be about something that’s already happened.” A lone tear caressed a solitary path down her pale cheek.

“Sometimes, though they’re rare, my dreams are about things that are going to occur.” Clenching her fisted hands in her lap, Theresa murmured, “I don’t know if the boy’s dead yet or not, but if we don’t find a way to find him, he’ll die. And so will Tommy.”

It was a glorious day for mid-November. The sunshine highlighted all the brilliant fall colors. Louisiana couldn’t boast the magnificent foliage of other states, but today its majestic glory was in full sway. Bright reds, yellows, golds and bronzes shone on the treetops, as leaf after leaf floated effortlessly to the grassy carpet below.

Steven stood at the huge bay window in his living room and watched the leaves slowly spiral down, catch the sporadic breezes and spin merrily before stopping on his lawn. His yard was perfectly manicured, a year-round advertisement and testament to his landscaping skills.

Sadness filled him. This would be the last autumn he would see. The last time he’d watch the changes nature wrought. He’d miss the brisk mornings, gradually warming up throughout the daytime hours, sunshine permeating the sky, peeking through the clouds, only to have the temperature cool in the evenings. This was his favorite time of year. Even though it meant a drop in his landscaping business, the ever-changing fall never depressed him.

He did mind that this would be the last one, though. He wasn’t ready. There was still too much unfinished.

Tommy and Becca weren’t cooperating with his plan. If Tommy weren’t chained, if Becca wasn’t virtually a prisoner herself without her chair, they’d never even speak.

He’d have to do something to fix that.
What could draw them together?
They needed a common goal, a target to strive for. Something other than their freedom. That would come soon enough, sooner than either of them realized. Until then, he had to come up with something to bridge the gap, make the bond between them grow and solidify.

He needed Tommy to care. That was his only hope now. Nothing else mattered.

***

Jacob Freeman slammed on the brakes of the ten-speed bike and dropped his feet to the ground, glancing at the house. He didn’t know Steven Black. Just that he was a professional handyman and landscaper around New Orleans. He’d done some checking, and the man had a good reputation.

Normally, he wouldn’t be caught dead talking to somebody like him, but he’d run out of options. He needed a part-time job and hadn’t been able to find anything yet. Even with the holidays approaching, almost all the part-time positions had already been filled. He was desperate. With Christmas just around the corner, he needed money and fast.

Except for the fast-food joints, he applied everywhere. Flipping burgers was a last resort. They paid nothing—minimum wage—and had crappy hours. He needed enough money to be able to buy gifts, and get his ride fixed.

His car was an old junker and he loved it, except the hunk of junk kept needing one repair after another. Most of his savings paid the insurance and bought gas. Now it was broken down again. Having to go everywhere on this stupid bike was the pits.

Money was the key. It held all the answers, and Mr. Steven Black of Black’s Back to Basics just might be the answer to his prayers.

Earlier he’d stopped by the hardware store, hoping to get a job stocking shelves, working in the garden department or even putting up the holiday displays. They were full up on part-time people, but one of the clerks had told him about this guy who had two roofing jobs lined up. He’d come in and ordered a ton of supplies. Maybe he could use some part-time help.

Jacob leaned his bike up against the side of a decorative concrete pillar flanking the entrance of the driveway. His nerves beginning to fray, he straightened his clothes, smoothed down his shirt and pulled the bottoms of his pants out from his socks where he’d tucked them before getting on the bike. He’d learned the hard way they’d get caught in the chain if he didn’t.

Running a hand over his hair to make sure it wasn’t standing straight up, he walked to the front door. Inhaling a deep breath then exhaling slowly, he gave a brisk knock. After a minute or two, he knocked again. No answer.

Determined, he stepped off the porch to glance through the large bay window. The curtains were cracked enough he could see inside. Nothing.
Maybe he’s not home.

Scanning the yard and debating his next move, he spotted the white pickup truck parked behind a white van. He hadn’t noticed them before, but he hadn’t been paying much attention, more concerned with making a good first impression.

Both vehicles were lined up with military precision on the rocky pathway next to the house. The hood of the truck still felt warm. Somebody was there.

Thinking he heard a voice, he walked toward the back of the house slowly, not wanting to get into any trouble. No, make that
voices.
He grinned.
Yes. Things are looking up.

His stride brisk and purposeful, he followed the rocky pathway. Start as you mean to go on, his father always said. Go after what you want. He rounded the corner, pulling up short at the raised voices, steadily increasing in volume. He could feel the anger.

A building sat back about fifty feet behind the house, completely hidden from the street. It looked like an enclosed garage. No windows and only one door. Through the open doorway, angry raised voices were coming from inside.

“This is so not a good idea,” he whispered, edging closer anyway. “Excuse me? Mr. Black?”

A large man barreled through the open doorway, eyes blazing, fists clenched, only to pull up short. Jacob felt the staccato rhythm of his heart racing, pounding in his throat.
Shit.
The saliva in his mouth dried, his hands trembled. Sweat broke out along his forehead.

The man braced his fisted hands on his hips. He looked like the Jolly Green Giant on steroids and mad as hell. Jacob’s gaze slid past him, widening in shock. There were two other people in that garage. He recognized one of them.

Tommy Saunders. He barely knew Tommy, only enough to say hello as they passed in the halls at school. His parents had reward posters up all over town, frantically searching for him. Yet here he was, a short distance from his parents’ home.
What the hell?

Tommy’s hands waved frantically, his voice called out with desperation. “Run, man. Call the cops, get help!” Tommy ran toward the door, stumbled and crashed to the floor, falling hard.
Holy hell!
A steel chain wrapped tightly around Tommy’s legs, keeping him from reaching the open door.

“Shut up, you idiot!” the man shouted at Tommy as he advanced toward Jacob, each step crunching loudly on the gravel. Jacob ran. Legs pumping, arms swinging, he sped over the rocks, crying out as he bumped his hip against the bumper of the pickup truck. Pain shot through him and he stumbled, careening out of control before righting himself. Catching his balance, he continued running, yelling for help at the top of his lungs.

Strong arms grabbed him from behind, propelling him face-first onto the ground. Hard. All the air in his lungs rushed out in a dizzying whoosh. Clawing at the gravel, feeling his hands cut on the pointed rocks, he struggled to throw off the weight pinning him down.

One meaty hand grabbed his T-shirt by the collar while another gripped the waistband of his jeans. He was frog-marched back behind the house again, toward that open doorway.

“No, you sick bastard. Let me go.” Fright made him angry, adrenaline pumping as he struggled in the grip of the madman, fighting for his freedom. He swiveled his torso, balled up his fist and struck out, swinging backward and to the side. He felt the punch land. His assailant grunted from the blow, but his hold never lessened.

Jacob screamed louder, his voice raspy and hoarse. There was no way the neighbors would hear him, but he had to try. Couldn’t stop. He yelled and fought.

Tommy and the other person, a girl, were screaming for the crazy man to let him go, but his hold just tightened. He heard the ragged sound of ripping material as his T-shirt rent. He pulled forward and kicked out, catching his assailant’s kneecap. It worked. With a startled cry, his grip lessened slightly, and Jacob broke free.

Without hesitating, he sprinted around the corner of the house, racing for the driveway. Why hadn’t he clipped his cell phone to his waist, like he always did? He’d put it in his backpack, and left it on the bike where it was useless…unless he could get to it.

He’d barely taken more than a few steps when a powerful force again hit him from behind.

“No,” he wailed. “Lemme go. You can’t do this, you sick pervert. Let me go.” Jacob was yanked to his feet, a large muscular forearm wrapped around his neck. A solid threat to cut off his air supply if he kept struggling. He held himself rigid then dropped like a dead weight, hoping to slip out of this maniac’s hands.

It almost worked, too. With the shift in his weight, he swept one leg behind, knocking the other man’s legs out from under him. They tumbled to the ground in an awkward tangle of limbs. Both struggled to gain superiority. Jacob continued yelling, his voice faint, knowing he might never get another chance.

A solid uppercut landed on his jaw, throwing him backward. Excruciating pain pierced him. The other man was on him again before he’d even processed he’d been hit.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” the man wailed, screeching higher and higher. Waves of pain rolled through Jacob. With each “shut up,” Jacob’s head was lifted then smashed back down against the rough surface of the drive. He finally stopped screaming, stopped making any sounds, just felt the pain, sharp and unrelenting, a continuous roiling nausea as his head connected with the ground.

The edge of blackness crept ever closer on the outer edges of his vision.
Lord, no. I don’t want to die.

He stared into the brown-eyed intense look of a man driven to the brink of madness, recognizing the instant sanity returned and the man realized what he’d done. It was the last thing Jacob ever saw.

***

Becca’s screams echoed through the room, only partially muffled by the cinderblock walls. Tommy reached over and pried her fingers free from the armrests of her wheelchair. Her short blunt nails had left gouge marks.

He squatted in front of her, patting her hand clumsily. He didn’t know how to comfort her. What can you say when somebody sees the unthinkable? An eerie quiet settled into the room, the only sounds Becca’s ragged indrawn breaths as she tried to control her tears.

Steven had killed that boy. Chased him down and beat his head into the ground, over and over, until he finally stopped crying for help.

Guilt was a bitter pill to swallow. Tommy’s heart ached. He’d told the kid to run. Maybe if he hadn’t…maybe. Yeah, well maybes didn’t amount to much when hope was gone.

He and Becca had yelled and screamed at Steven to stop. He’d been a man possessed, his actions wild and uncontrolled. Helpless, Tommy watched, unable to render any kind of aid. Steven’s screams still echoed in Tommy’s ears—a high-pitched, sickeningly eerie sound—yelling at the boy to shut up.

Bright red blood stained the light gray and white rocks as the kid’s head came up, only to be smashed down again. Blood and dirt matted the back of his head, soaked into his blond hair.

Steven stood and stared down at his hands, horror clearly written on his face at the sight of the blood, a brilliant crimson hue in the afternoon sunshine. A solitary heart-wrenching sob broke free before he turned toward them. From his expression it was evident; he knew they had seen everything.

Steven is a murderer.
He’d brutally killed Jacob. Tommy finally remembered his name. They went to the same high school but didn’t have any of the same classes, which was why he hadn’t recognized him at first.

Jacob had called out for Steven by name. Tommy couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing there. Now he’d never know.

Steven hadn’t uttered a sound. He straightened, eyes whipping around rapidly. Satisfied nobody had seen him, he’d stalked to the open door, pulling it shut with a sharp bang. Becca flinched at the sound, her sobs quieting. Tommy heard the ominous sound of the click as the lock turned.

They were alone. Steven was gone, at least temporarily. Tommy grimaced at the thought of what might happen when he came back.

He focused on Becca’s face, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. He wished he could give her time to deal with what had happened, but they didn’t have time.

Stooping in front of her chair, he placed his hands on the padded armrests for balance and leaned forward, using the knuckle of his index finger to raise her chin. His gaze met hers without wavering.

His voice low but firm, he said, “We don’t have much time. We need to think. What the heck are we going to do when he comes back?”