Текст книги "Visions"

Автор книги: Kelley Armstrong

Соавторы: Kelley Armstrong,Kelley Armstrong
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SOFT SELL

Ricky finished proofing his term paper for management strategy. As he added his name to the first page, he paused before typing Richard. No one called him that. Outside of school, no one even called him Rick.

He had gone through a stage in high school where he’d insisted on Rick. It was the same stage where he’d cut his hair short, worn preppy clothes, garaged his bike, and bought a used car. When you grew up in a gang, that was teenaged rebellion. It lasted less than a school term before he realized that he was only rebelling for the sake of rebelling. He liked being Ricky Gallagher, with everything that entailed.

Someone rapped on the clubhouse office door.

“Come in.”

It was Wallace, his father’s sergeant-at-arms. Wallace did not go by Wally. A new recruit tried calling him that once. The result had required plastic surgery.

Wallace looked around for Don. Not long ago, that look would have been followed by, “Boss in?” But now it was just a visual check before he turned to Ricky.

“Got a lead on Tucker,” Wallace said. “Bastard’s holed up across the border in Wisconsin. Gonna go pay him a visit. You wanna ride along?”

“Sure. Give me five. Just finishing a term paper.”

Wallace’s gaze flicked to the laptop screen. No sign of derision crossed his face. This, too, meant Ricky was making headway. He’d grown up like the favorite nephew in a huge clan of uncles. Growing out of that role proved difficult. Going to college hadn’t helped. His father fully approved, but to the gang it was a sign that maybe their boy was a little too intellectual, too mainstream … too soft. Dropping out wouldn’t earn their respect, though. No more than insisting on being called Rick. He would earn his place, and he would do it as Ricky Gallagher, MBA.

After Wallace left, Ricky’s cell phone rang. Call display showed a number he didn’t recognize. He hesitated before answering.

“It’s Olivia,” a contralto voice said. “Olivia Jones. Lydia said you were trying to get in touch with me.”

“I was.”

The tightness in her voice told him this wasn’t a call she’d wanted to make. She might have flirted with him at the clubhouse, but after that business at Desiree Barbosa’s apartment, she’d clearly decided he was not someone she cared to know better. Damn Gabriel.

He made small talk for a few minutes, but her voice stayed tight, wary, and finally there was nothing more he could do but take his shot, on the very slim chance he was mistaken.

“Are you free for dinner tonight?”

“No, I’m sorry. I—”

“Tomorrow night? The night after that?”

A sudden laugh, as if in spite of herself.

“Yep, I am persistent,” he said. “And flexible. Name the time. Name the place. French cuisine next Saturday night or a hot dog stand for lunch tomorrow.”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can. Where are you right now? I’ll bring a picnic.”

She laughed again. A good sign.

“See? It’s easier to say yes.” He shifted the phone to his other hand. “Go out with me, Olivia. Just once. I’m sorry about what happened with Desiree. If I’d had any idea that Gabriel didn’t warn you what he planned—”

“That’s not it.”

“No?”

“I’m having dinner tonight with my, um, former fiancé.”

“James Morgan?”

“Uh, yes.”

She seemed surprised he knew her ex’s name. He didn’t tell her that he’d come home after their first meeting and looked up everything he could find on Olivia Taylor-Jones. Prep work. Like being interested in a business and learning everything you could before initiating a takeover. Which was an analogy no woman would appreciate, and he’d never make it. But he wanted to get to know her better, and when Ricky went after something, he used every tool at his disposal. He’d learned that from Gabriel, a lesson taught by example from the moment Gabriel decided he wanted to be the Saints’ lawyer.

As for James Morgan, he hadn’t needed to research the man. Ricky was an MBA student who took his studies seriously. He knew exactly who Morgan was, and while he was damned sure he wouldn’t want to compete with him corporately, he suspected he had a decent shot here.

“So you’re having dinner with James tonight. Have lunch with me tomorrow.”

“I can’t. Dinner with James means—”

“You’re testing the waters for a reunion. Great. But as long as he’s still your former fiancé, you’re free to see me. Comparison shop.”

A sputtered laugh.

“One date, Olivia.”

“I really can’t. I’m sorry.”

He smiled in spite of the refusal. The honest regret in her voice told him he wasn’t out of the running yet. She just needed a softer sell.

“A drink, then,” he said. “Not a date.”

“I don’t think—”

“I’ll settle for coffee.”

“You really don’t give up.”

“Nope. I just downgrade the offer until I get buy-in. Have coffee with me. Absolutely no strings attached. I won’t even angle for a date.” When she hesitated, he smiled. “Coffee it is, then. Sunday afternoon—”

“I’m working.” A pause. “Can we make it Monday or Tuesday? Anytime before three?”

“Tuesday’s my heavy school day, so let’s go for Monday.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

When I returned to my apartment after my Saturday shift, TC wasn’t there. Usually, he was in the towel-lined cardboard box I’d assigned him as a bed. The only time he hadn’t been was when I’d found him hiding under my bed, and I suspected someone had broken in.

I searched the apartment, which took about three minutes. Then I searched again. I even pulled out the can of cat treats. Yes, I’d bought him treats. Give it another month and I’d be collecting his shed whiskers and claws like a proud momma preserving her baby’s first haircut and lost teeth.

I shook the treats. I called his name—well, his acronym. Then I conducted a calm and measured search of the apartment. Oh hell, who am I kidding? I tore about, checking every cat-sized space frantically, certain he’d suffered some horrible ailment that prevented him from answering my calls, even for fake-tuna treats.

There were a very limited number of places he could hide in those few hundred square feet, and I checked them all three times. I even looked in the fridge and stove. Hey, I’d been distracted lately; he could have hopped in while I wasn’t paying attention.

Once I was sure he wasn’t in the apartment, I hurried out to the front stoop, where Grace was on troll duty.

“Have you seen my cat?” I asked.

“You mean that stray that you insist isn’t actually yours but you keep feeding—”

“He’s not in my apartment.”

“Did you leave the window open?”

“No.” I’d kept my windows locked since I’d discovered Ciara Conway’s body.

“Well, I haven’t been in there, and I’m the only one with a key.” She peered up at me. “Didn’t I see you carting trash down to the bin this morning?”

“Right.” I’d taken two bags because I’d forgotten last week.

“Then he snuck out while you were doing that.”

“Maybe. If you see him—”

“Don’t ask me to put him in your room. Still got the claw marks from the last time I touched the damned beast. Stray cats are like two-timing men. He got tired of you and took off. He doesn’t find anyone new? He’ll come slinking back. By then, if you’re smart, you’ll have decided you’re better without him.”

I headed down the steps, scouring the yard for signs of TC. Behind me, Grace snorted and muttered. I checked my watch. I was meeting James in ninety minutes, but …

I crossed the street to Rose’s house. When she answered the door, she looked down at me like I was a five-year-old caught ringing the bell, about to dash away. I tried not to quail under that stare. Rose may be in her late fifties, but she’s a brown belt in karate, a few inches taller than me, and as sturdy as an oak.

“Miss Olivia.”

“Hey, um, Gabriel said you wanted to speak to me.”

“I did. But you keep sneaking out your back door.”

“I didn’t sneak—”

Her look stopped the excuse in my throat.

“Okay,” I said. “I snuck. Gabriel and I have … parted ways, and I figured you were checking to be sure he’s getting his due. I wasn’t in the mood for that conversation. I will pay his bill.”

“I know you will. What I wanted to discuss has nothing to do with Gabriel. Come in, and I’ll make tea.”

“I can’t. I have a … an engagement.”

“A date with James Morgan.” When I looked surprised, she said, “I have the sight, remember?”

“Or Gabriel told you James hired him to get me back.”

“Either way, a date with James seems—”

“I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Because I’ll tell you it’s a terrible idea? That you know it’s a terrible idea and that you’re only doing it because you feel guilty?”

“Um, no. I—”

“The cards tell me that if you pursue this reconciliation, you will regret it.”

“Uh-huh.” I shook my head. “If you want to help me, use your cards to find my damned cat.”

I expected her to shoot back some variation on what Grace had said, that I hadn’t wanted TC in the first place. But she frowned. “He’s gone?”

“He is. If you see him, please let me know. Otherwise, if you still want to talk, let’s make an appointment.”

“Tomorrow morning,” she said. “Nine a.m.”

“Okay.”

“Meaning you have absolutely no desire to reconcile with James Morgan.”

“What?”

“You’re going out with him tonight. You just agreed to meet me first thing tomorrow, meaning you do not intend to spend the night—”

“Goodbye, Rose,” I said. “If I can’t make it by nine, I’ll call.”

Rose was right—I had no intention of spending the night with James. I’ll admit to a tiny temptation to reconsider, just to prove her wrong. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to sleep with him. I like sex. Hell, I really like sex. After three weeks, James probably expected me to suggest room service for dinner. Except he’d see that as reconciliation, which meant I couldn’t. Not yet.

I didn’t make any long-term decisions during that dinner date, but the awkwardness dissipated. While the old feelings didn’t reignite, I could sense them there, waiting to kindle as we talked. When I said I had to head home right after dinner, he didn’t argue, just walked me to my car and kissed me good night. It was a nice kiss. A long one, enough for me to feel that particular spark, but I didn’t pursue it. We promised to talk later, and parted.

It was past midnight by the time I got home. My building was silent, which was nothing new. I’d been there almost a month, and I hadn’t caught more than glimpses of my neighbors. Grace had sworn my apartment was the only vacancy, but by this point I suspected half the building was empty.

I stumbled into my apartment, bolted the door, and shed my shoes and dress as I walked. I collapsed into bed in my bra and panties.

As exhausted as I was, I didn’t fall right to sleep. I’d had an espresso to keep me awake on the hour’s drive home. So I hit the mattress and fell into twilight sleep, surfing between consciousness and slumber until I lost track of time and place. When I woke touching hair, I thought I was still with James, that I’d spent the night after all. I pushed my fingers into his hair and touched—

Cold skin. Ice-cold skin.

I jerked awake, flailing, the hair entwined in my fingers, and I scrambled away, the hair falling free. It hit my bare leg, and I stifled a yelp as I looked down to see—

My hair. Lying on the bed.

There was a confused, nightmare moment where my hands flew to my head … which was, of course, covered in hair. I leaned forward, my hands on the bed, eyes shut while I heaved breath. As the oxygen overload hit, I truly woke up, and I sat there, eyes still closed, shuddering, trying to throw off the nightmare. Finally, I straightened, opened my eyes, and—

I saw hair. Not mine this time. Dark, short hair, almost hidden under the tangled sheets. There was clearly no one else in bed with me. The dark hair peeked out, covering a lump barely bigger than—

The cat.

I yanked away the sheet, certain I’d see my poor cat. Someone had killed him and put him here, in bed—

Something rolled from the covers.

I saw skin and a nose and a mouth and—

Black pits where eyes should be.

The neck. Cut clean through. Ragged, bloodless skin and—

The head of Ciara Conway. In my bed.

As I backed away, I touched hair again. I let out a shriek before stuffing my fist in my mouth. A blond wig lay where I’d flung it. I looked at the head and then at the wig, and I tumbled out of bed, kicking free of the twisted covers, hitting the floor hard and then sprinting out the bedroom door.

Phone. I need my—

I spotted my purse on the floor. I grabbed it and yanked the clasp, contents spilling out, clinking and clicking over the hardwood floor. I snatched up my phone and hit the speed-dial number without realizing whom I’d called until I saw the name flash on the screen. Gabriel. I hit the End button. Then I stared at the phone.

Who should I call?

Seriously? You’re asking who to call when there’s a severed head in your bed?

I hit 9. Then 1. Then I stopped.

I needed to take a photo. Ciara Conway’s head was in my bed, and this time I was getting proof.

My fingers shook and my gorge rose, but I went back to the bed, took the picture, and then I e-mailed it to myself and—

My phone vibrated. The sudden movement made me let go. As the phone hit the floor, I saw Gabriel’s name pop up on the screen. Shit. I grabbed for it and—

Something hit the side of my skull. Pain exploded. Everything went dark.

CHAPTER TWELVE

My eyes fluttered open, then closed again, the effort too much, the light too painful. My hand clenched something soft and cool. Sheets. A pillow under my head. I was lying in bed. I opened my eyes. Blue. I saw pale robin-egg blue. Then eyes, light irises ringed dark, gorgeous eyes framed with inky lashes and …

“Olivia.”

The deep timbre was almost a rumble. I knew that voice. I knew those eyes. My brain sputtered, neurons firing, pain threatening to snuff out thought. Then …

Gabriel.

I was in bed. Looking up at Gabriel. My head pounding like I’d downed a fifth of tequila.

I shot up so fast my head and stomach lurched, and I retched. My hands flew to my mouth, my eyes clenched shut. I smelled plastic and felt something cool bump my cheek and opened my eyes to see my bedroom garbage pail shoved under my chin.

I shook my head and backed up as my stomach settled. As I swallowed, I looked around. I was in bed. Gabriel was there. But he was standing beside me, fully dressed, and—

And I was not fully dressed. I grabbed the sheet to cover up, then froze as I saw the bedding. A memory flashed, and my brain finally clicked on, reminding me of what I’d seen—

I scrambled up, knocking into Gabriel as I flew out of bed. I whirled and stood there, breath coming fast, stomach clenching as my gaze swept over the twisted sheets.

“Olivia?”

“There’s … there’s a…”

I looked around. No wig. No head. I grabbed the sheets and pulled them straight. Nothing. I ran to the other side of the bed. Nothing on the floor.

“Phone,” I said. “I took a picture. I need—”

I stopped, staring at Gabriel, my brain still sputtering as it jammed puzzle pieces into place.

“I … I didn’t mean to call you,” I said.

It was, quite possibly, the stupidest thing to be worrying about. But that’s what came out.

“I hit speed dial, and I wasn’t … I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry. I…” I blinked and it was like moving through a room stuffed with cotton, everything soft and blurry and unfocused and thick.

“Sit down,” he said.

“I … There was a…” I spun around. “My phone. I took a picture this time. I need—”

“Olivia? Sit.”

When I didn’t move, he propelled me down onto the edge of the bed. Pain shot through my skull. I winced. My fingers rose to touch the side of my head, but Gabriel caught them.

“Yes, you’ve got a goose egg, possibly a concussion.” He crouched in front of me. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Sat– No, Sunday. June 3.”

“And your name?”

“Well, that one’s tougher, since I apparently have two. I’ll go with Olivia Taylor-Jones for today.”

He lifted two fingers. “How many—?”

I swatted his hand away. “I’m fine.” I paused. “You didn’t need to come out.”

“After you called me at one thirty in the morning, hung up, and wouldn’t answer when I phoned back?”

That wasn’t really an excuse for driving an hour to check on me. I could have been drunk-calling. Or dialed wrong and then couldn’t face talking to him. If he had been convinced it was urgent, his aunt lived across the road and could have checked on me.

“I was already out,” he said, reading my thoughts.

He looked as if he’d just gotten out of bed. His shirt was misbuttoned. His hair looked finger-combed, already falling forward in a cowlick, his cheeks dark enough that I was sure he hadn’t shaved since Friday. Like hell he’d been “out.” Not looking like that. Unless the bed had been “out” … as in “not his own.”

“You should have just called Rose,” I said.

“She doesn’t keep a phone in her room.” He straightened. “I’m here now, Olivia, so let’s not argue about why. Tell me what happened.”

“What hap—? Oh God.” I jumped up too fast and my stomach lurched. I doubled over, one hand to my head, the other to my mouth. He took me by the shoulders and tried to get me to sit down, but I shook my head. Even that movement made my stomach wobble.

“Olivia? Sit. You’ve taken a serious blow to the head. Tell me what happened so I can get you to the hospital.”

“No, I don’t need– I’m just– It’s all muddled, and I’m having trouble—”

“—focusing, Which is why you need a doctor.”

“My phone. Did he take– Or she– I didn’t see—”

Gabriel had my phone. I didn’t notice where it had come from. I really was having trouble staying focused, my brain sharpening only to slide off into jumbled thoughts.

When I looked up, Gabriel was flipping through my phone, and I considered snatching it back. Not that there was anything private on it, but you don’t go through someone else’s phone any more than you’d hunt through her purse for breath mints. Yet my head hurt too much to work up any righteous indignation. Besides, he wouldn’t have any interest in uncovering anything personal. He’d go straight to what he wanted: the photos.

“They’ve been erased,” he said.

“What? No. There are the ones I took of the hound and—”

“They’ve all been erased.” He continued tapping the screen, gaze fixed on it.

“Wait. I e-mailed it to myself—”

“Yes, I see.” He stopped. Froze, actually, staring down at the tiny screen. I’d say he paled, but with his fair skin it wasn’t easy to tell.

“That’s Ciara Conway’s…” he began.

“Head. In my bed. Which I discovered when I was half asleep and—” I took a deep breath. “It was her head. With a blond wig. I don’t think that’s in the photo. I threw it off over…” I pointed. “Over there. It’s gone. Along with the head.”

My foggy brain slid away and—

And I was still dressed in only my bra and panties.

Well, at least it’s a nice set of bra and panties.

Yep, these were the thoughts going through my brain as I looked at a photo of a decapitated head on my bed.

I blinked hard and squeezed the bridge of my nose.

“You need to see someone,” he said. “You might have—”

“– a wee bit of shock at waking to find a head beside me. Not a concussion or brain damage.” I hope. “Where was I? Right. I sent the photo, and then I got hit. I didn’t see my attacker. I presume he—or she—was in here the whole time. Am I supposed to do something? I mean, obviously, yes. I should have been on the phone to the police, not my ex-lawyer…”

“There’s no evidence. The police would have presumed you had a nightmare and fell out of bed.”

“Until I showed them the photos.”

“Even then…” He didn’t say more, but I knew what he meant. Even with this photo of a weirdly bloodless, almost waxen, eyeless head, lying on my sheets, they’d have thought someone had played an elaborate prank on me. Or worse, that I was playing one on them. I was Eden Larsen, child of serial killers.

“So now what?” I said.

“Now you get that security system. This is obviously a very serious threat—”

“I mean what do I do about Ciara Conway?”

A flicker of annoyance, as if I’d interrupted him with something meaningless, like “Umm, I’m not wearing pants.” We didn’t have proof that Ciara Conway was dead, and it wasn’t like he gave a damn about her. The important thing was …

What was the important thing? Making sure I was safe? Why? Because he sure as hell didn’t give a damn about that, either, not unless someone was paying him to, and—

My hand shot to my head, and I winced as fresh pain stabbed through it.

Gabriel moved closer, bending down. “Olivia…”

“Okay. So someone killed Ciara Conway and is leaving body parts, dressed like me, as a warning. Locking my doors isn’t going to solve the problem.”

“Which is why you need a security system.”

Not what I meant. But what did I mean? I have to get to the bottom of this, and I need your help.

Fresh pain stabbed through my head, bringing a wave of nausea.

If Gabriel wants to help me find a security system, wonderful. Let that be the extent of his involvement. He’ll be happy with that. He’s sure as hell not going to suggest—

“We should look into this,” he said.

I ran to the bathroom and heaved into the toilet. One would think my reaction was all the answer he needed, but when I finished puking, he was standing there, calmly holding a towel. He handed it to me and then waited to make sure I was done vomiting before saying, “If you won’t see a doctor tonight, you need to do so tomorrow.”

I shook my head and washed up.

“I’ve been investigating Ciara Conway,” he said.

“Okay.” I tossed the dirty towel in the hamper and brushed past him. “Give me what you have, and I’ll add it to what I know. I’ll get the security system installed. In the meantime, if you don’t mind, I’m going to put on some clothing.”

“Thank you.”

I glowered at him. “If it offended you, you could have just asked.”

“You were distraught, and I didn’t want—”

I walked into my bedroom and slapped the door shut, cutting him off.