Killing Bliss (17 page)

When his chores were done, he went to the bank and withdrew the funds from his secret account. He walked out of the bank into an unseasonably hot day, the sun a glare in the western sky. He ignored it until he got to his Honda, parked a block away.

The car was warm and stuffy. He didn't have air-conditioning, so he rolled the windows down and sat for a time, waiting for the heat to dissipate.

He rifled through the glove department for some antacids. His gastrointestinal tract felt as if someone were hosing it down with lit kerosene—and another headache loomed. After gobbling some tablets, he put his head back on the headrest, weary, but grateful he had a few minutes to let his mind clear.

In seconds, his thoughts turned to Sandra.

She'd gone too far these past months. Way too far. He made fists of his hands and felt again the first lashes of the cane slapping languidly at his buttocks, the early prickles of titillation, the powerful pull of his sick desire.

Then the pain, Sandra's foul angry words. The beating.

He deserved it, she said, all of it, because he was bad. He was evil.

And she was right.

Excitement knifed through him and anticipation filled his lungs until his breath labored for release.

God, she was good...

Oh, how he hated her.

The sun pierced the windshield, and he clenched his eyelids closed. On the screen behind them the image came, blood running between his thighs after last night's beating, then pinking to run down the shower drain.

He had to leave her. Had to.

His muscles knotted, and his breathing shallowed.

But that would mean leaving DSHS, the only place he was safe, the only place he did some good. The only place he was a whole man. Because of Bliss, Sandra knew everything. She'd ruin him. Never let him be.

Never, never, never.

Thinking about her exhausted him, and he switched to Frank Bliss. Damn him to hell for stirring things up.

If it weren't for him, Belle would still be alive, and Wayne wouldn't have a damn hole in his life the size of Mount Everest. If anyone could have given him the courage to leave Sandra, it was Belle. No one understood him like Belle had.

His heart withered in his chest, tears welled, until holding them back hurt his eyes. In the end, he'd understood why her sons hated her so, but it was too late. He loved her, mindlessly and without reservation, and with a dark passion that all but destroyed him.

Belle. Oh, Belle...

Belle's image gave way to the present, to Linda Curl. She'd asked him out again this morning, and he liked that, liked how she took the lead, the way Belle had from the very first when he'd called on her to assess her home as an interim foster-care facility. She was so strong, so sure of herself... of him. He'd have done anything for Belle, and proved it by putting all those lies in the system, approving her, taking all those chances with his placements.

There hadn't been anyone like her until now, until Linda.

His chest constricted. Maybe that feral nose of Sandra's had picked up the scent of his need for another woman. Maybe that was why the beatings were growing so intense.

Sandra didn't trust him, hadn't since Belle. Everything would have been okay if Frank hadn't called her, told her everything.

Then he'd threatened to call DSHS, tell them about the sham placements. He could still hear him.

"You're going down, Wayne old man, unless you come up with some cash. Brett and I need to get out of this burg and you're our ticket. No way is that DSH or whatever the hell it's called gonna be happy to hear you're sending money old Belle's way, putting little kids with a woman who whores on the side—and dipping your own dick while you're at it."

Whores on the side...

His neck burned, his throat seized up.

Belle Bliss. She'd made him feel like a man—a real man—not the "sad excuse for his sex" Sandra said he was. He'd thought she'd opened her heart to love him, but it had been only her bag of tricks she'd opened to con him.

Now Frank was back, demanding money and putting everything, his job, what passed for a life, and all his good work in peril.

And the ten thousand dollars? It wouldn't be enough. There'd never be enough for Bliss. When his stomach recoiled at the thought of what he had to do, he did some deep breathing, told himself to calm down, get rational.

He had no choice... no choice.

He had to burrow under Bliss's skin, then finish him once and for all.

Weariness crept over him like a fog, and he rested his head on the velour headrest and let the heat in the car swaddle him, ease his nerves. He must have dozed off.

A harsh rap on his half-open window snapped his eyes open, and he stared blearily at a man standing outside his car door.

"Sorry, man, but this is a parking lot, not a park bench. Are you planning to leave anytime soon?"

Grover nodded and turned the key in the ignition. "Sorry. Headache," he mumbled, then pulled out of the spot and out of the lot, back to the office, back to his dark, painful thoughts.

Back to formulating his plan, how to get close to Bliss—and how to kill him.

* * *

Addy didn't dare leave the phone, so she'd asked Toby to take the old Ford Ranger truck into town for some supplies. She was on her own at the desk when an elderly couple came into the office, checked on the Star Lake rates, then registered for an overnight stay.

Because they were probably quiet, she put them in the cabin next to Cade's. She hadn't seen him since last night, although she did see his light go on at four.

She smiled at the woman and handed her the keys. "Enjoy your stay at Star Lake, and if you need anything, be sure and let me know."

"Everything looks lovely, dear. Thank you."

As she went out the door, Cade came in—and the phone rang.

He nodded at her to go ahead, not that a herd of thundering elephants could have stopped her. Not only might it be Gus, it was a chance to get out from under those sharp eyes of his. Eyes she hadn't looked into since the Chinese food fiasco.

The phone call wasn't Gus—again—and while Addy got edgier by the minute, Beauty, now an impatient prisoner in her four-hundred-dollar-a-day suite, was getting bored, and she was drinking. Either one was a dangerous condition, together they were a recipe for disaster—or murder.

Their call last night had been an arduous hour and a half of Addy attempting to calm Beauty down, insisting she wait until she could talk to Gus, assuring her she would—when she was no closer to it than she was when she started. If Gus didn't call soon, she didn't know what she'd do.

She talked briefly to the woman on the phone, who was determined to sell her a vending machine, then hung up. She turned to Cade, who was idly scanning the tourist pamphlets in the rack on the counter.

"Hey," he said, when he looked up to see her attention finally fixed on him.

"Hey back." She stacked some loose papers on the counter, but forced herself to meet his steady gaze. "Is there something I can do for you?" she asked in her best motel-owner's voice.

"Yes." He dropped a pamphlet back in its slot. "You can stop avoiding me, which will give me a chance to apologize."

"Done. Apology accepted. Anything else? Extra pillows, towels..."

"Did I actually kiss that smart mouth?"

"Yes, you did, and I didn't like it one bit."

He studied her. "Liar." Then he shook his head. "But if that's how you want it, that's okay with me. I was out of line, and I'm sorry."

"You already said that."

"And I don't plan on saying it again." He lifted the hand that was below the counter. "I brought you this." He held out a book.

Addy pursed her lips, looked at the book. It had a picture of a teenage boy on the cover. He was sitting on a blanket on the sidewalk, his back against a concrete building. She stared at it, her stomach tightening. She didn't take it. "I don't read... much." For the first time, she added the last word reluctantly. She glanced up at him, and as she did so, saw his expression flatten to a blank.

He pulled the book back. "Fair enough."

He was at the door when she said, "Cade."

He turned back, his face still unreadable. She knew she'd hurt him. Hated that.

"The thing is, I, uh, don't read at all."

"That's okay. Not a problem." His expression didn't change, and he opened the door and walked out.

She thought of calling him back, explaining, but she couldn't say it again. It was too mortifying. She hadn't even told Toby yet. She watched Cade go, her stomach sinking.

He was halfway to his cabin when he stopped abruptly and called Redge who was running ahead of him. Making an abrupt about-face, he headed back to office and confronted her. "You mean you can't read... at all?"

Chapter 11

Addy swallowed, feeling outed against her will, and promptly kicked herself for trying to save his feelings by exposing her awful secret. "That pretty much nails it."

Silence.

"Pretty much?" he queried, tilting his head and studying her as if she were a new life-form.

She busied herself with the guest register, which of course, given her admission of illiteracy, was the ultimate in stupidity. She slammed it closed. "I didn't do well in school. Okay?" She sharpened her tone, wished she could cut her tongue out. "I can read some. I'm not stupid." Addy knew the "some" wasn't nearly enough, and hated herself for sounding defensive. She certainly didn't owe Cade Harding excuses. Smart enough to get by this far—harder since Lund's death—she'd continue to cope. No problem. For one thing, she used her ears. If a person listened hard enough, she discovered, it was amazing how much they could learn and keep filed away. The rest, like getting someone to read for you if you were completely stuck, just took creativity.

"Obviously," he said, his tone matter of fact. "If you were stupid, you wouldn't be running this resort—"

"—motel," she corrected automatically, wishing with all her heart he'd go away and take this uneasy conversation with him. He still held the book in his hand, and she looked down at it, adding, "Now why don't you go back to putting more words on paper for people who can appreciate them and leave me alone?"

"Why did you tell me?"

She shrugged, not about to say she hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings.

When she didn't answer, he said, "If you like, I can teach you to read."

She fixed her eyes on him, couldn't help herself. She laughed, hollowly and without humor, but for some reason she couldn't come up with her usual quick response.

"What's so funny?"

"The idea of you being teacher instead of lecher."

"Ouch." He inhaled sharply. "You may not read, but you're sure as hell not deficient in the vocabulary department." He took a step closer to the counter. "But, for your information, I am a teacher"—he glanced away briefly—"of sorts. Until a few weeks ago, I was head of the criminalistics department at Washington State."

It was as if a frigid wind had raced through the door. She froze. "You're a cop?"

"Ex-cop, and that was years ago. When I figured out I preferred the classroom to the streets, I went back to school." He settled his green eyes on her. "I taught at WSU until a couple of months ago."

Was she imagining it or was he staring into her soul? Whether he was or wasn't, Addy was so stunned at the idea of her standing there talking to a cop, even an ex one, her tongue froze solid in her mouth.

"That bother you?"

"What?" she mumbled.

"That I wore a blue suit for a while?"

"No, why should it?"

"Good." He put the book on the table. "Take this. It's called
Zero Intolerance.
See what you can do with it. The offer to teach stands—right alongside a promise not to 'lech.' You know where to find me."

He walked out the door, and Addy was left with a book, a slack jaw, and a spike of terror up her spine as sharp and rigid as a fire poker.