What Lies Within (34 page)

It’s not too late. You can still back out. Call Kyla back and say you were mistaken. Don’t burn this bridge!

Mason flicked a torn piece of paper from his desk. “No, sir. I’m afraid not.” His voice grew stronger, more certain as he went on. “I don’t think there’s any way to stop Kyla Justice.”

“Is that right?”

Normally the threat in those quiet words would have given him pause. But now? It just made him smile. “No sir. You see, she’s enlisted help.”

“Help?”

He was flat-out grinning now. “Yes sir. From me.”

“Help?”

“Yes. From me. And Rawlins Building.”

“I see. So. Fiancée trumps long-standing customer, eh?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well, I won’t say I’m pleased. But I do understand. I’ve been in love a time or two myself.”

Mason didn’t comment. He just bid Ballat good-bye—aware he was doing so to the business the man had brought his way all these years.

Oh well. It was time for a change.

Although … that call was a good deal easier than he’d expected. In fact, it was too easy.

Could it be …?

No. Mason shook his concerns from his mind. Ballat might bend the rules. He might even break them once in a while. But hurt Kyla to keep the job from completion?

Ballat would never go that far.

Not if he knew what was good for him.

Well. Mr. Wright had become Mr. Wrong. All because Mason Rawlins had his limits. Who knew?

He’d just have to contact someone who didn’t share Rawlins’s compunctions. He flipped through his Rolodex, then dialed the number.

“Hello?”

“It’s time.”

A rustle of sounds came over the phone, and it was a few seconds before the man spoke again. “I
told
you not to call me on my cell!”

“Yes, well. You shouldn’t have given me the number, then. I take it you can’t talk freely.”

“Of course not.” The voice dropped to a hiss. “I’m at the church!”

“Then I won’t keep you. But know this, my friend. You came to me. I’ve given you guarantees of very healthy returns provided you deliver on the promises you made.”

“I know that. Listen, I have to go. They’re looking at me—”

“You have to go after Kyla Justice.”

The lack of response told Ballat this might take some convincing. He picked up a pencil, rolling it between his fingers, waiting. Let the weasel get his thoughts together.

“Are you sure that’s necessary?”

Ballat snapped the pencil in two. “Positive.”

“How far do you want me to go?”

Hmm. Intriguing question. “What do you mean?”

“Do you want her just frightened? Or out of the scene entirely?”

“I want her stopped.”

“So you’re authorizing violence?”

The man was a fool. Ballat made a mental note to dispose of him once this ugly affair was over. “I don’t want details, you idiot. I just want her
stopped
. Do we understand one another?”

“Perfectly.”

“I hope so. Or your fifteen minutes of fame will be for some very unpleasant reasons.” Ballat ended the call, grabbed up the pieces of the pencil, and threw them into the trash.

One way or another, this was over. Kyla Justice. Those old fools at the church. The man with the cane. Even Mason Rawlins. He’d take them all out if he had to.

Whatever it took to make it clear.

This stubborn, stupid church was done.

FORTY-ONE   

I
t was done. Fifteen minutes, and he was inside Kyla Justice’s home.

Shouldn’t have taken more than five, but some old coot was outside, walking a white puffball of a dog. At least, he figured it was a dog. Looked more like some kind of mutant hamster. Either way, the old fool took his time, letting the little rat sniff every bush along the walkway. Watching the slow progress, he’d almost lost patience, but calmed himself by lifting the gun and fixing his sight on the rooting runt.

By the time man and puffball finally passed by, he’d nailed the midget a dozen times. In his mind, of course, but that was sufficient.

Once the coast was clear, he made his way to the fence bordering the town house’s backyard. Scaling it was a cinch, and within moments he was at the back door. He’d already checked to see if the Justice woman had any kind of electronic security. She didn’t, which had pleased him enormously. He loved it when his marks made his job easy.

Getting inside held no challenge. He just slipped the torque tool into the deadbolt, inserted the pick, and within seconds had the pins set. The lock slid open, as obliging as a sycophant at the feet of a rock star.

He eased the door open, then slipped inside.

All was calm. Silent.

Perfect.

Thanks to waiting for the old guy and his so-called dog to pass by, his eyes were accustomed to the dark. He took his time walking through the silent rooms, picking up a knickknack here, moving a photo there. Nothing too obvious.

Just enough to let her know he’d been there.

He loved this part of the job. Planting fear was such a personal thing. Had to be tailored to each mark. What made one person edgy might not even faze another. So he always made sure to study his prey, to know them inside and out.

Kyla Justice, for example, was a neat freak. A place for everything, and everything in its place, as his mother used to say. The thought of his mother brought a smile. He’d practiced his skills on her long before he even knew what he was doing. All those little pranks, moving things from where they “belonged,” pushing pictures just a fraction crooked on the wall, spilling just enough granules of salt on the table to irritate the subconscious …

His smile widened. He could still see his mother’s features, the furrowed brow, the clenched jaw, the glaring eyes. She never did figure out it was him doing it. She just thought she was losing it.

Kind of amazing when you thought about it. His talent far excelled anything others claimed. Born to be wild? Child’s play. Born killer? Too messy. Let others embrace those clichés. No, he thought as he lifted a photo from the top of the TV—the shot was of Kyla Justice, a younger woman, and a large black dog. His was a talent of distinction.

Born to torment.

He smiled, setting the photo down on the bookcase next to the television.

Silent as the shadows, he traveled from room to room, making his tiny adjustments, saving the best for last. Finally, it was time for his favorite.

The bedroom. Where she, even as he walked toward the door, slept.

Turning the doorknob always made his heart accelerate. Every knob was different. You could never tell for sure what was too fast or too slow, what would send a loud click echoing into the silence, spoiling the game.

Easy … easy …

Relief flowed as the door slid open without a sound. He stood for a moment, listening. Kyla Justice’s breathing was low and even. The sleep of innocence. He almost hated to disturb …

Almost.

Stepping into the room, he moved on feet well trained in stealth, heading for the bathroom. Opening that door was even more nerve-racking—and even more satisfying when he did so successfully. He took his time here, smelling her shampoo and then her perfume as he traded their locations. He resisted the urge to open the medicine cabinet. Too much risk there. Even someone as organized as Kyla Justice could have a messy medicine cabinet. Opening that could bring any number of things tumbling down. No, as much as he’d like to get inside it, he’d best leave it be. He didn’t want to risk alerting her too soon.

Because that, he thought as his gaze traveled to the door, would spoil all his fun.

Back in the bedroom, he paused, savoring the moment. Then, with slow and careful steps, he made his way to the side of her bed. He stood there, looking down. His gaze followed the line of her face in the darkness, then traveled lower. The sheets moved up and down with each easy breath.

Oh, the beauty of the human form in repose. So relaxed, so at peace.

So in his control.

He lifted a hand, let it flow, an inch or so above her, along the shape of her body beneath the covers. He didn’t touch. Never touched. That was uninspired. Loutish. No, it was far more exciting to stir the subconscious. To get just close enough to spawn a subtle awareness, a vague unease.

He crouched, bringing his face within inches of hers. Watched, heart leaping, as his breath caressed her hair. Moved a strand just a fraction. He closed his eyes, let himself luxuriate for just a moment in the act of creation.

In these moments, he was god. Master. Creator. Almighty. All-powerful. He breathed, and fear lived.

But he gave himself only a moment to savor. Any longer and he’d miss it. Miss seeing his creation come to life. So his eyes opened, and he watched. Breathed a second time on her smooth face. Watched, seeking …

There! Subtle, but real all the same. Kyla Justice’s breath caught. Her eye
movement shifted. And then he saw it. The very moment awareness tugged at her, even through the folds of sleep …

Saw it … and smiled.

Kyla’s eyes flew open.

She flailed in the sheets, pushing herself to a sitting position. Back against the headboard. Fingers digging in the blanket.

What …?

She blinked, trying to see in the darkness of the room. Her hand finally released the blanket and reached for the light. Tapped the metal, and drew a grateful breath as light sprang to life.

Nothing. There was nothing there. She frowned. She’d had such a strong sense … as though someone was there, standing over her. She pulled her knees to her chest, listening.

No sound reached her.

A sigh escaped her, relief tinged with frustration, and she let herself relax and slide back under the covers. She’d leave the light on, just for a bit.

Just enough to dispel whatever had invaded her dreams.

He amazed even himself.

His timing was impeccable. He’d stepped back, easing out of the room just as she stirred. Heard her panic as she fought the sheets. Reveled in the sound.

He was a conductor, guiding her in a symphony of fear. And she was playing the piece to perfection. Now, though, was the tricky part. While she was awake. Aware. Listening even when she wasn’t conscious of doing so.

Now was the time to bring her panic to a crescendo. To let her know he was there. That she was not alone. Was not safe.

Now was the time he relished most.

It had taken awhile, but her breathing was finally slowing down. Silly how worked up one got because of a dream. But it had seemed so real …

I swear, I’m getting as fanciful as Annot
.

Shaking her head at herself, Kyla turned onto her side and curled around her pillow, her eyes drifting shut as she burrowed deeper under the covers. If there was one thing she hated, it was waking up when she didn’t need t—

Her eyes flew open. What was
that?
A soft sound. Muffled.

Was that a
footstep?

Heart pounding, Kyla threw back the covers and perched on the edge of the bed, hugging herself, arms a barrier between her and whatever she’d heard. Whatever—or
who
ever—was out there.

A quick glance around the room confirmed she was alone. And that didn’t seem right. But why—

Oh.

Of course.

A shivery laugh washed over her. The cat. The cat wasn’t in her spot, on the pillow next to her. She looked to the bathroom door, and frowned again. She was sure she’d closed it.

Right. And the cat opened it? Come on. She’s not that clever
.

Letting go another sigh, she slid from the bed. Best to corral the critter and get her back into the bed. No telling how much trouble the silly thing could cause roaming free.

She took hold of the bedroom doorknob, then froze. That door, too, was open. She
knew
she’d closed it. Remembered doing so.