Whittaker 01 The Enemy We Know (34 page)

“
You do?” A whisper.

“
Oh, yes. There’s a connection between you. He’s after you. He wants you. I understand that.”

Marshall’s eyes, deep, black pools where gold reflections of fire danced like pagan spirits, pulled me in. He leaned forward, just slightly, just enough to signal his desire, eyes never releasing mine. I didn’t think I moved, but I must have. Maybe I leaned. Still, it surprised me when our lips met. Met, moving and sliding and shaping one to the other, testing the surface before deepening. Warm and soft and silky, it felt like I was melting.

He moaned, slipping his arm behind my back, down my waist, levering my hips forward so I slid against the length of him, under and alongside the length of his lean body. I wasn’t sure of much, but this I knew: he was pirate-worthy.

The CD switched again. The between-tracks silence dropped into the room, exaggerating the slight night-sounds of labored breathing, the fire’s snap, the shush of rustling clothes, the rasp of his axe-calloused hand as it slid along my thigh. The music kicked in—Portishead’s “All Mine”—a smooth counterpoint to the pulsing beat of our hearts. The hauntingly eerie noir tones filtered through my consciousness, moving us deeper into the night. Gasping, I pulled back and away, levering up.

“
What is that?” I asked, though I loved the band and was completely familiar with their work. Familiar enough to know that the song—disturbing in its chilling sensuality—could have been chosen as the anthem for the next Stalkers Association of America convention.

“
It’s…um…I thought you liked this band.” Marshall spoke slow and carefully, as if trying to calm a jumper on a ledge. Or possibly he was just having difficulty shifting gears from lust to loony. Alternatively, perhaps someone had drugged him with over-the-counter sleep aids. Eenie meanie minie mo.

“
How do you know what bands I like?” In contrast, my voice sounded shrill and accusatory, the panic reined in only by confusion and leftover horniness.

Marshall straightened up, running a hand over his face, yawning. “I don’t know. Maybe we talked about it?”

“
Marshall, we never talked about music. I don’t remember telling anybody…” I trailed off.

“
What?”

“
Lisa and I talked about our favorite bands. A couple of ks ago.”

“
Well, there you go. She must have mentioned it.”

“
Why would Lisa tell you what bands I like? That makes no sense. Maybe you heard us?”

“
Maybe. Look, I don’t know. I just wanted you to feel comfortable. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He unsuccessfully squelched another yawn.

“
Right. I’m sorry. I’m just on edge these days. You know.”

“
Don’t apologize. I understand completely. It’s my fault for pushing too soon.”

Taking that as my cue, I stood, simultaneously smoothing my skirt and trying to stuff wispy tendrils back into the French knot in an effort to ignore that we’d been making out like hormonally charged teenagers at the drive-in. Marshall looked dazed and befuddled. He’d pass out as soon as I left, or so I hoped. If he locked his door or turned into an insomniac despite the drugs I’d slipped him, I’d give up. For the night anyway.

It wasn’t a stormy night, but it was still pretty damn dark. Chilly, too. I’d let Marshall walk me to the door, turning on his porch lights so I could make my way to the car without mishap. I’d hoped he would be too woozy to remember to turn them off, but no such luck. They clicked off as soon as my headlights pointed toward the road.

I let the car roll forward until a stand of bushes and scrub trees blocked the view from the cabin. After smoking a gotta-stay-calm cigarette, I fished in my glove box, momentarily freaking out when my hand closed on something soft and fuzzy—my slightly shredded “emergency” tampon, not a dead rodent as I first imagined. I finally found a mini-flashlight. Slightly more powerful than a firefly’s butt, it was capable of shedding just enough light to match key to keyhole on a dark night. Not so good, however, for willful trespassing in the enchanted forest. Come Monday, Quality Control would be pink-slipped.

As expected, the cheap thing died halfway to the cabin. Banging it viciously against an oak tree did nothing to convince it to return to life. Crying didn’t create miraculous illumination either, but after a few minutes, my eyes adjusted to the night, letting me stumble between the dark roadway and the slightly-darker-than dark edges of grass. I cursed my shoes all over again.

It took so long to reach the cabin that Marshall could have cycled through all five sleep stages twice and gotten up for a middle-of-the-night snack to boot. Even though navigating the driveway had taken a lot longer than I’d anticipated, I took some time to rest on the porch steps. I just wanted to go home. Nerves and unrequited hormones had used up all my energy reserves. Got my butt wet on the frosty wood.

Teeth chattering, I stood and tiptoed to the nearest window. Marshall had left a nightlight on in the kitchen, comforting but only slightly brighter than my now defunct mini-flashlight.

It would’ve been smart to do some kind of reconnaissance around the cabin, maybe peeking in the windows and verifying Marshall’s exact whereabouts, but I no longer gave a crap. I decided if Marshall woke up and caught me, I’d jump him. It remained to be seen whether that would end as a booty call or a beat down.

Chanting “please be locked, please be locked,” I turned the knob. Of course, it opened. The fire had died down to embers, leaving warmth and orange, glowing ashes. It was quiet.

I debated calling a soft “halloo” to add verisimilitude to my “I come in peace” story, but fell back on the jump-Marshall-first, explain-later plan. I could always make up a cover story mid-straddle. As if he’d notice.

The first thing I did was tiptoe up the stairs to listen at Marshall’s door. Soft, not-quite-snores drifted rhythmically through the partially opened door. I eased it shut. Then down to the kitchen, where I began pawing through the junk drawer. Luckily, I found one of those skinny pen-lights that all the real cat burglars on TV use. Moving to Marshall’s desk, I clamped the pen-light between my teeth like a Bond girl, pulling out the top drawer. Two drawers down, my jaws ached, and I realized cat burglars must have crappy dental health. A person could break a tooth doing this stuff.

But no buck knife.

I slid over to the bookshelves. As remembered, the shelves held a scattering of English lit, a wider assortment of Clancy and Grisham novels, and some old psych texts. I pulled a few out, checking to make sure the knife hadn’t been thrust behind them. Since I already knew that Marshall had studied Shakespeare, I only briefly examined his copies, making sure the sonnets that had been sent to me weren’t in some way singled out. On the other hand, if I found a term paper analyzing Sonnets 57, 147, 35, and 129, specifically, I’d stuff a pillow over Marshall’s sleeping face. Or, at the very least, I’d turn the paper over to Blodgett, although that lacked the keen resonance of pillow justice.

Every few minutes, I eased over to the foot of the stairs, listening. Finding nothing more dangerous than a sticky note, I shifted to the closet. As before, it held only closet stuff. Even the axe was gone.

Further exploration of the cabin uncovered a small laundry area. A load of jeans, slightly damp and musty smelling, had been left too long in the washer. I resisted running them through the wash cycle again. I couldn’t help noting that one minute I wanted to asphyxiate and the next domesticate the same man. Worrisome dichotomy.

After sliding and shifting every object and peering under and into every orifice on the main level of the cabin, I was reasonably certain the buck knife wasn’t there. Marshall’s bedroom, specifically the gun cabinet, was all that remained.

My legs were shaking uncontrollably before I even made it to the stair landing. I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm down, but almost hyperventilated myself. Just as I forced my knees to unlock and climb the next riser, Marshall coughed. I almost wet myself. Then he coughed again.

Time to go.

By the time I’d made it back through the hellish darkness and gained the safety of my car, I’d convinced myself that the gun cabinet would, of course, be the first place searched by law enforcement and so presumably the
last
place a killer would hide a murder weapon. Alcoholics, even those in recovery, can work up excuses and rationalizations faster than almost anybody. Except politicians. They still got us beat.

I’d search Marshall’s office at the clinic tomorrow.

Neither Hannah nor I had remembered to get the keys; we ended up having to call Lisa in to open up. She was not amused. When she finally showed up, her hair, flat on one side and snarled into a froth on the other, told the same story as the bright orange pajama pants emblazoned with red “kissy” lips. As if we didn’t get the point, she clutched a large, gas station-logoed cup of coffee like she intended to mainline the brew. Hannah stood a prudent five feet away, eyeing her warily.

I gave the sleep-deprived diva much therapeutic space, expecting her to bolt as soon as the locks snapped open. She surprised me by following us into the front office and plopping down at her desk. Hannah raised an eyebrow and continued toward her own office.

Lisa waited until Hannah’s door shut before turning to me with an evil grin and a drawn out, “Well?”

“
That’s a deep subject,” I said.

She frowned in confusion, a state Lisa did not tolerate with grace. “
What?
”

“
Wells? They’re deep. Get it?”

“
If you make my head hurt worse than it already does, I will peel the skin off your body with my staple remover.” She brandished the metal pincers menacingly, clicking them like malevolent castanets. They looked like they could do some damage. “Tell me everything, babe. I want the dirt.”

“
I don’t know what you’re talking about”—the blush spreading over my face gave away the lie—“and even if I did, I don’t do ‘dirt.’”

“
Well, I do. Okay, just tell me this…” Reaching into her drawer, she pulled out the magazine and held it up, pointing a shapely, manicured nail at the Marshall look-alike. “Huh?
Huh?
”

The flare from first-to third-degree blush almost ignited my eyebrows. Lisa laughed so uproariously, it drew Hannah back to the front. I tried grabbing the sleazy magazine, but Lisa fended me off with the staple remover.

“
What’s going on?” Hannah asked.

Lisa tossed her the magazine. Hannah’s naturally placid features broke into a slight grin. “Oh, my,” she said.

“
No, no, no. That’s not the best part. Check out the dude up in the little basket thing.”

“
It’s a crow’s nest,” I said. I don’t know why.

Holding the magazine at arm’s length, Hannah shifted it back and forth, trying to focus on the Marshall-pirate without putting her reading glasses on. “
Oh, my!
” She got it.

“
Is that…? Do you think…?”

I snatched the magazine away. “No, of course not. It’s just some guy who bears a slight…” I broke off, eyeing the naked buccaneer.
Could it be?

Lisa leaned over my shoulder. “I don’t care who you are, that ain’t ‘slight.’”

Hannah leaned over the other. “Maybe he needed money in college or something. Because, look!” She pointed at a spot on the pirate’s neck. “Doesn’t Marshall have a mole right there?”

“
That’s just a water spot,” I said. “Probably from Lisa drooling over it.”

“
I never drool. That’s a mole! I need a magnifying glass.” Lisa started to rummage through her desk drawer. While she was distracted, I grabbed my car keys, sprinting for the door.

“
Hey!” Lisa protested. Ignoring her, I made for my car, tossed the magazine in the trunk, slammed it shut. Damn thing had
my
name on it anyway.

When I got back inside, Lisa sat slumped in her chair, a thwarted frown pursing her lips. “I’ll get it back.”

Unimpressed, I leaned a hip against her desk. “How? You gonna tell Marshall I took back the porn magazine that you think
he
posed for?” Her eyes narrowed to slits, darting back and forth as she mentally scanned her choices.

She didn’t have any. Yet. Sniffing, she stood, smoothing down the wrinkles in her pajama top. “Well, have fun working all day, ladies. I’m going back to bed.”

“
Leave the keys unless you want us to call you back to lock up.”

She didn’t bother with an answer. Instead, she dropped the keys on her desk, little pinky extended to show royal disdain. Then she sashayed out the door, letting quiet descend on the clinic.

Almost too quiet. I looked around. “Isn’t Mary Kate supposed to be here?”

“Don’t ask me. Maybe she overslept,” Hannah said.

“
Mary Kate? I’ve never known her to be late. Besides, she’s bringing the donuts.” This was a very important point.

“
She must be exhausted with finals and helping out here. She was looking pretty tired last night, but all I got was a glare when I suggested she sleep in this morning. Anyway, let’s get started. We can get a lot of this cleared away if we hustle.”

I agreed, but my mind wasn’t on filing. I was obsessed with getting into Marshall’s office undetected. Humming a John Denver tune, Hannah disappeared into the file room to track down those files we’d need for Monday’s clients.

“
Oh, I forgot. I have a phone call to make. Shouldn’t take long.” My voice sounded phony to me, but Hannah was deep into sunshine and mountains and re-establishing order to her world. She didn’t care what I did.