Tonight, after reading all those suicide accounts,
he’d wanted a drink so goddamn bad… If he’d had any booze in the house, he’d be
halfway to drunk this very moment. If the craving got any worse, he’d be
calling Brock for a midnight workout. A few rounds in the boxing ring usually
got him through the worst of it.
Somehow Eve didn’t strike him as much of a boxer. He
thought of her slender hands and the pain in her eyes every time she lifted a
heavy pitcher to the bar. A million times he’d nearly jumped out of his chair
at Sal’s and done the lifting for her, but he hadn’t. Because along with her
pain was a determination, and then satisfaction that she’d done it.
Determination and satisfaction, he understood.
Brock had told him that when Sal first hired her, one
of her hands had been useless, but that she’d just worked faster with the good
hand, somehow managing to keep up. She was a woman who’d been through a hell of
her own. And persevered.
She deserved a hell of a lot more than…
me
.
Brock was right. He played with fire every time he walked into that bar. He
couldn’t go back to Sal’s. Not ever again. Which meant he wouldn’t see Eve,
ever again. Which in the end, was for the best.
He would do his job. Two women, murdered. He would
find out by whom, and why.
And then?
And then he’d take one day at time, as he’d been doing for ten years.
Monday, February 22, 2:20 a.m.
Christy Lewis puckered her lips in a kiss, checking
her lipstick and the rest of her reflection. The lipstick was new, just like
the outfit she’d been saving for a night like this.
Her eyes were bright with anticipation. She’d never
done anything like this before. Anything so naughtily tawdry. She’d met him in
Shadowland, mingling in Ninth Circle. He’d said his name was John. She was
pretty sure it wasn’t, just as she was pretty sure he wasn’t divorced. She
wouldn’t be at all surprised if he was married with two point five kids and a
dog. But she wouldn’t ask. She didn’t want to know.
He was in sales and traveled. She’d left the open
invitation that if he was ever in the Twin Cities… Tonight he was. For just one
night. The words “one-night stand” tickled her imagination. She’d never done
one, not even in college when all of her friends did. She might not even do one
tonight. It would depend on him, how he looked.
She didn’t expect him to look like his avatar.
Who
does? If we looked like our avatars, we’d have real lives.
But, if he was cute and clean, then why not? It had
been a while since she’d had her watch wound. And men did it all the time. Her
miserable ex-husband had. All the time.
So now it’s my turn
.
And if “John” had a wife, two point five kids, and a
dog? Christy’s shoulders sagged. She knew if he did, she couldn’t go through
with it. She’d been the “injured party.”
But just maybe, he didn’t. She dropped her lipstick in
her purse. Maybe he was telling the truth. And if not? She’d get out, drink a
cup of coffee with someone who was flesh and bone. And then she’d come home
alone, like she always did.
Finally. He’d thought she’d never leave. He watched
Christy Lewis drive away, then pulled into her driveway. She lived out in the
country, her nearest neighbor a quarter mile away. The location was
logistically inconvenient to get to, but once they returned together later,
there would be no need to tape her mouth closed as he’d done to the others. She
could scream as long and loud as she wanted and no one would hear her.
And she would scream. Or maybe she’d be so terrified
she’d go completely silent. One never knew how people would react when
confronted with their worst fear. Either way, he had very high hopes for an
intense experience.
He looked into his backseat with a smile. Christy
Lewis’s worst fear was safely contained in a metal box with holes poked in the
top. One couldn’t be too careful. He himself wasn’t terrified, but he wasn’t
foolish either. He’d put the box in the house where it and its occupant could
grow warm. The occupant of the box didn’t like the cold, hibernating this time
of year. By the time he returned with Christy, the occupant of the box should
be quite warm and quite… mobile.
He grabbed the box by its handle, gratified at the
soft stirring that came from within.
Excellent
. Christy’s worst fear was
waking. It would be hungry. Of course he’d planned for that. He grabbed a small
cage from the floor, ignoring the high-pitched chatter.
He shivered deliciously, anticipating. This would be
one to remember for a long time.
Monday, February 22, 2:40 a.m.
Brock dragged his forearm across his brow, clumsily
wiping the sweat. “You good?”
Noah leaned against the ropes, panting. He was very
nearly hollowed out. They’d set up the boxing ring in Brock’s basement years
ago, along with free weights, punching bags, everything they needed for their
own gym. Everything Noah needed to battle his way out of the bottle, away from
the prying eyes of other cops at the department gym.
Noah had thrown more punches here than he wanted to
count. It was a way to get through the gnawing need for a drink before it
became a craving. Sometimes he used a punching bag, but when it got really bad,
he needed something that punched back.
Brock had absorbed more of Noah’s punches than either
of them wanted to count.
Noah exhaled slowly, considering. The gnawing need was
still there. It was always there. But the worst of the craving had passed. “I
think so.”
“Thank God,” Brock muttered. Spitting out his mouth
guard, he straightened his back with a quiet groan and waggled his jaw. “You
got me with that last one.”
Normally he and Brock were evenly matched, but tonight
the craving had been especially vicious, its claws razor sharp. The dream woke
him, left him shuddering in his bed like a frightened child. Then the craving
had barreled out of the darkness like a freight train. It had been a long time
since he’d come so close to giving in.
“I’m sorry.” Noah pulled at his gloves with his teeth,
wincing when he got a good look at his cousin’s face. “I got your eye, too.
God, Brock, I’m sorry. Dammit.”
“S’okay.” Brock tried to rip at his own gloves with
his teeth, but stopped, grimacing from the pain in his jaw. “I’ve had worse.
Not in a while, but I have had worse.”
“Shoulda’ kept your hands up.” Brock’s wife, Trina,
rose from the basement stairs where she’d been sitting, hidden from their view.
She reached over the ropes to pull off her husband’s gloves. “One of these
days, you’re gonna really get creamed.”
Brock frowned down at her. “Don’t I get any sympathy?”
he grumbled.
She lifted her chin to meet his eyes, unmoved. “I made
you an ice pack.”
Noah almost smiled. Trina was one of his all-time favorite
people. They’d gone through the academy together and he’d introduced her to
Brock, toasted them at their wedding. He was godfather to two of their sons. A
decorated cop, Trina was as close as any sister could ever have been. She knew
all his faults and loved him anyway.
Trina turned, assessing Noah with eyes that missed
very little. “Not that I mind watching two ripped guys without shirts duking it
out in my basement, but what gives?”
Noah rubbed a towel over his face. “Bad dream,” he
said shortly.
“Hm,” she said. She pulled a cold bottle of water from
each of the deep pockets of her robe, tossing one to Noah. The other she
pressed to Brock’s eye, which was already turning purple. “Ice pack for your
jaw is upstairs. I put on a pot of coffee. Come.”
They followed her up to the kitchen table where Trina
filled their cups and pressed an ice pack to Brock’s jaw. “Must have been one
hell of a bad dream,” she said quietly.
“Yeah.” Noah dragged his palms down his face. “I
caught a hanger tonight, but it was staged.” He knew he could tell these two
anything and it would never leave the room. They were more than family, they
were cops. “And it was the second one.”
“Not good,” Trina murmured. “You’re thinking serial?”
“Maybe. Jack and I went back to the station, combing
the suicide reports to see if there were any more. Luckily there weren’t.”
Trina sipped at her coffee. “So what did you dream?”
Noah drew a breath. It was still so real. So
disturbing. “That I was the hanger.”
“Upsetting,” she said matter-of-factly. “But you’ve
had suicide dreams before and you’ve never messed up Brock’s face this bad.”
“It’s not that bad,” Brock mumbled and she patted his
hand.
“Not from where I’m sitting, baby,” she said. She
turned back to Noah. “So?”
“The victims had their eyes glued open. Grisly.” He
shrugged. “In the dream I saw these dark eyes staring up at me.” Dark brown doe
eyes, filled with pain.
“The victim’s?” she asked.
Noah shook his head, not wanting to say. “No. Just
somebody I know.”
Brock’s eyes grew sharp. “Eve, then.”
Noah looked down at the cup in his hands. “Yeah.”
Trina sighed heavily. “So you did go to Sal’s tonight.
You had me confused there for a minute. You normally only come over to punch on
Brock on Monday nights.”
Noah barely fought the urge to fidget in his seat.
“Well, I won’t be going back.”
“Glad to hear it,” Trina said cautiously. “What about
Eve?”
“Not meant to be,” Noah said, ignoring the
disappointment. “I’m moving on.”
“Really, now?” she asked, her tone deceptively mild.
“Then I have a friend you’d like. She’s Joey’s kindergarten teacher. Really
pretty and she likes those dark philosophers you like to read. Y’know, the ones
that make you want to drown your head in a bucket.”
Brock looked away, but failed to hide his smirk.
Trina leaned forward, all charm and smiles. “I think
I’ll invite her to dinner for you. You can bring a pie or something. How does
tomorrow night look?”
Noah hated when Trina read him like a book. “Busy.”
“Tuesday? Wednesday? Busy?” She made a scoffing noise.
“You’re a lousy liar.”
He frowned darkly. “I won’t go back to Sal’s. You have
my word.”
“Good. But don’t lie to me about Eve. You don’t move
on. You linger and wallow.”
“I do not,” he said, offended. “Brock?”
Brock shook his head. “I already got beat up once tonight.”
Trina threw a sympathetic glance at Brock before
turning serious eyes on Noah. “You don’t have to go to a bar to see a
bartender. She has a life outside of Sal’s.” She brightened, wryly. “I bet she
even eats. I know. Why not invite Eve to dinner, instead?”
Noah clenched his teeth. “It isn’t meant to be, Tree.
Just leave it. Promise me.”
Trina pushed away from the table, annoyed. “Fine. I
promise. Satisfied?”
Not really
.
Part of him hadn’t wanted her to give up so easily. But Noah stood, kissed her
cheek, and said what he needed to. “Yes. Go back to bed. I’m going home.”
“I’ll walk you to the door,” she said and Noah
swallowed his sigh. This meant she had more to say. Dutifully Noah followed her
to the door where she buttoned his coat as if he was one of her sons. She
looked up, troubled. “You know I love you, right?”
“Yes,” he said, without hesitation, and she smiled,
but sadly.
“Tonight… you scared me, Noah. If you two hadn’t
stopped when you did, I would have stopped you. You were so angry.”
He closed his eyes, shame washing through him. “I
know.”
“You will always be welcome here, no matter what time
of the day or night. But you can’t go after Brock like that again. He won’t say
so because he’s too proud, but you could seriously hurt him. You were rocked
tonight by that dream. But there was more to it than that.” She tugged on his
coat. “Dammit, you look at me.”
He opened his eyes and swallowed hard. There was no
accusation in her eyes, just love, fierce and sharp. “You’re not ready to move
on, Noah. Eve’s touched something in you that you don’t want to walk away from,
whether you want to admit it or not. And I think that’s what was pushing you
tonight, not a dream and not this case.”
“I know,” he murmured, miserably. “But I don’t know
what to do about it.”
Trina hugged him hard. “Trust yourself. You’re a good
man, Noah Webster. You don’t deserve to be alone forever.” She gave him a
shrewd look. “You’re not the only one with bad dreams. Brock and I see bad shit
every day, just like you do.”
“So what do you do when you have dreams, Tree?”
“Sometimes I raid the fridge for anything chocolate.
Sometimes I work out. And sometimes I just fuck Brock’s brains out.” He snorted
a surprised laugh and she lifted a brow. “There’s something to be said for therapeutic
sex. Maybe you should get some.”
Her words sent instant images of Eve, long and lithe,
sliding her body down his. He thought of the yearning he’d seen in her eyes
tonight, the need she’d tried so hard to hide. He shuddered, clenching his
fists in his pockets. “I won’t drag her down with me.”