Skin Heat Page 20

  Hebert suspected he was more worried about the immigration status of some of his workers, but he wasn’t here for that. Legal employment was somebody else’s wheelhouse and they were welcome to it. Five minutes later, a lanky blond-haired man ambled into the lounge. He had some cuts on his jaw from shaving with cheap safety razors, and a chip on his shoulder fit to weigh a body down in a dark river. Minnie looked nothing like him; no wonder Gwen had named her that. She was, in all ways, a replica of her mother.

  “What’s the po-po want with me now? Ain’t I already locked up?”

  Great, another white man who thinks he’s black. Hebert had often received the reverse complaint—that he was a man of color who was white on the inside. He didn’t let it bother him anymore; he was who he was, and that was mostly the sum total of his work, including all his successes and failures.

  “I’d like to talk to you about Gwen Davies.”

  The man’s whole demeanor changed. He lost the swagger and he just about fell into his chair across the table from Hebert. Raw pain lit him up as if someone had jammed a Roman candle in through his ear.

  “I don’t know nothin’ bout that, man. But y’all find out who did it, and I will kill the motherfucker.” No bravado—it was a promise.

  Hebert had heard enough threats to know when one had teeth. He filed that away for future reference. It was just as well Mosely would be locked up for a while yet or he might get himself the death penalty, playing the Punisher. Honestly, he thought that would be a bad call. Sometimes people had it coming, but it wasn’t an opinion he’d ever share with another law enforcement professional. It would get him sidelined faster than he could blink. In his line of work, he was supposed to catch vigilantes, not sympathize with them.

  “When did you see her last?” There was no question who he meant.

  “Two months ago, I guess. She brings Minnie to see me sometimes.” Desperate devotion and pride shone in his tired face.

  “I’d caution you against doing anything irrevocable.” Hebert surprised himself. This was the kind of thing Rina would do. “You have a little girl out there who needs you. She needs you to straighten up and do the right thing. Her grandmother won’t be around forever. Do you want to let her down again?”

  “Fuck no.” Mosely ran a hand over his shorn head.

  “Can you think of anyone who would hurt you by going through Gwen?”

  The other man froze. “Like for revenge or some shit?”

  “Precisely.”

  While Hebert watched, Mosely ran a mental tally. He could see him going through old scores and people he’d pissed off over the years. Finally he shook his head. “I ain’t never done nothing to earn that payback, swear to Jesus. They’d steal my shit or trash the car I got parked at my brother’s place. Not this. Not Gwen.”

  Fuck. Hebert believed him. That meant he just needed to verify the man’s alibi. He asked a few more questions and left. In the car, he called Childersburg, gave his badge number, and asked about the time of death. Theodore Mosely had been locked up when Gwen Davies died.

  Back to square one. He hated this goddamn case. On the plus side, they’d caught the guy who’d killed Michelle Winston. It was, unsurprisingly, the guy her family hadn’t wanted her to date. Sometimes the job literally made him sick.

  But it was better than where he’d come from, better than a life of endless poverty. At least he’d gotten out. Many of his friends couldn’t say the same, not that they’d recognize him. When he’d left Louisiana, he left all of that behind. And as always, he had work to do.

  He studied the paper, a faint smile playing about his lips. So they’d identified the two girls. He had been watching the Birmingham paper and reading the obituaries. They had both appeared, now. So the ABI knew their names. It wouldn’t do them any good. He had been too careful, studied the work of too many others before he started. Though his father had claimed he was a coward, his precision was paying off now.

  Reading the obit made him feel strange, almost like a child with a secret. He’d known that Gwen was a stylist and that Sheila worked as a dental hygienist, and he’d known, of course, that Gwen had a daughter. But the other facts about their hobbies and interests and those they’d left behind? He almost felt like a voyeur.

  Still, there had been no articles about the cases being connected or a killer on the loose. The press wouldn’t have gotten wind of it yet. And that was a good thing. He wasn’t doing this for notoriety. In fact, he would prefer nobody ever knew. But unless the agent assigned was a complete idiot, he couldn’t help but see the connection. As the body count rose, they’d form a task force and his job would get harder. Hopefully he would discover the perfect death soon.

  Folding the newspaper to avoid showing any undue interest in the obit section, he went to see what his woman was doing. He found her in the kitchen, banging on a steak with the meat mallet. Lately he had been distracted around her, not as present in the relationship as he should be. He apologized by nuzzling the back of her neck.

  It won’t be long until I’m all yours. I just have to finish a few things first.

  “In a better mood?” she asked.

  She’d picked up on his tension earlier and he’d snapped at her. He regretted it. If he drove her away, it would destroy him. This woman was all that stood between him and utter darkness.

  “I’m sorry. Work’s been a real bitch lately.”

  She nodded. “That new project has you buried, huh?”

  Her choice of words made him smile. “You could say that. I appreciate how patient you’ve been. I hate traveling for the job, but it’s necessary right now. Anything I can do to help?”

  “Peel the potatoes? I’ve got the water boiling already.”

  “We could just bake them.” Since the first girl, he hadn’t wanted to touch a knife. Odd, that. But it reminded him too sharply of his loss of control. He dropped a kiss on her upturned mouth.

  “Then could you prep them?”

  “Of course.” He liked doing such simple things with her.

  She didn’t know what his early life had been like. Because her childhood had been pretty and perfect, she assumed everyone had grown up the same way. Using the fork, he stabbed several neat holes in the potatoes, then oiled them and dipped them in salt. That was the proper way to make a baked potato. People who wrapped them in foil were simply doing it wrong and ruined the skin. There were, definitely, right and wrong ways to do things.

  He still needed to find the perfect method.

  Without being asked, he dumped the hot water down the drain for her and turned on the oven. He stashed the potatoes directly on the rack with a cookie sheet beneath to catch the drippings. No mess. When he turned he found her watching him with a faint smile.

  “What?”

  “You’re so careful.”

  That gave him satisfaction on several levels. “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.”

  “Don’t I get on your nerves then?”

  Well, she was a bit of a whirlwind, somewhat slapdash in her habits. But her sweetness made up for all of that. “You know I’m crazy about you.”

  He took her in his arms and breathed her in. Her hair smelled natural and clean; she used an organic shampoo bar that she ordered specially from a company in California. It had sandalwood powder and other ingredients to brighten and bring out the highlights in her hair. She didn’t mess about at salons, and in his opinion, she didn’t need to; she was already so beautiful she took his breath away.

  “Mmm.” She gazed up at him, love in her eyes. “Me, too.”

  “Want me to fire up the grill?”

  “It’s freezing outside!”

  That was an overstatement. It was forty-five. “With a jacket, I’ll be fine once the coals heat up.”

  She’d eat it from the broiler but not with the same pleasure. So her eyes lit up even though she kept arguing, just for appearances. He ignored her protests.

  “Marinate it while I get ready?”


  “Sure.”

  He grabbed a coat from the hook beside the back door and went outside. After pulling the cover from the barbeque, he arranged the briquettes to his satisfaction. The steel grill gleamed in the moonlight. Since the potatoes were baking—and that would take an hour or so—he didn’t use lighter fluid. In his opinion, using it tainted the taste of the meat. A primitive palate might not notice the difference.

  By the time she delivered the steaks, he was ready. The flesh hissed when it met hot metal. A delicious smell wafted up, making him forget the cold. They bled as he pierced them to flip them over. Ah, perfect. Since they both enjoyed their steaks rare, he pulled them and carried the plate back into the kitchen.

  “The potatoes just finished. They look wonderful.” As she set the table, she added, “I made a salad, too.”

  He smiled. “You are too good for me.”

  How true. More than she knew. But it didn’t matter. He had ample proof that people didn’t get what they deserved. Sometimes he felt almost as if he were two men: the one who did his dark work alone and the one who loved her. Oh, he knew it wasn’t true. He didn’t have dissociative identity disorder in the clinical sense. He didn’t black out and wake up wondering what he’d done. He always knew.

  The best part about her? Daddy couldn’t talk when she was around. Her strength and her goodness worked on him like Kryptonite. When he was with her, he was only himself, but without the vulnerability and the weakness. It was a blissful feeling and he would do anything to keep it.

  Once they’d finished eating, she asked, “What do you want to do tonight?”

  What he wanted to do, and what he had to do were two different things. “I’m afraid I have to put in some extra hours tonight.”

  “Again?” Disappointment colored her voice.

  “I’m sorry. But it won’t be for too much longer. I’ll be done soon.”

  “You promise?”

  “I swear.”

  That much, he could guarantee. If he had to, he would take more girls and finish them quicker, exploring the possibilities. There were . . . so many. Sometimes, if a woman felt sufficient pain, her screams became a song, like the mourning cry of grieving women in Afghanistan. A most ghastly music. The old man approved. He wanted Geneva Harper to know that special brand of agony.

  “Guess what I heard today?”

  How cute. She loved to gossip. It was her one feature that could be remotely considered a fault, but he liked hearing her silly stories. He leaned forward, chin on hand. “What?”

  “It’s Harper related. You know how this town is.”

  He did indeed. They ran everything, owned everything, and thought themselves the next things to God. “So tell me. I can see you’re dying to.”

  “Apparently there was an altercation up at Harper Court. One of the guests threatened to kill another.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I think it had to do with Geneva, but I’m not sure.”

  “Interesting.” It remained to be seen if he could make use of the information. “Let me know if you hear anything more?”

  She paused in clearing the table, surprised. “I didn’t know you cared about stuff like this.”

  “I have my seamy side, too.”

  “Sure you do. I know you’re just humoring me but I love you for it.”

  So easily she spoke those words, and yet they meant everything to him. He had to finish this soon, so they could move on together. She’d never know. This wasn’t something he did because he wanted to; he had an obligation to the old man. This would let the bastard rest—and finally, he could just be normal. The voices would stop; the panic would stop.

  It was all the Harpers’ fault. They had to pay. His lips shaped the words without him meaning to, a breath of sound.

  “Did you say something?”

  God, no. None of this could touch her, ever. He thought of the girl waiting for him in the dark, wondering why he’d taken her.

  “Just mumbling about the project. I should get back to it, and that requires a research trip. Don’t wait up.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Since Neva had the car keys, it wasn’t like Zeke was inconveniencing her. The nightmare of the party fell behind him as he ran. He resisted the urge to pull off his shoes and leave the road behind. He must look quite the fool, running in slacks and a dress shirt. The woods, where this kind of shit didn’t matter, beckoned.

  Inside him, the beast roared with shame and humiliation. It knew no middle ground, and most times, neither did he. If another male had his hands on his woman, he was the enemy. But those rules didn’t belong to her world . . . and neither did he.

  Zeke covered the miles back to the farm in record time. The cold didn’t bother him, or the distance. He wasn’t even breathing hard when he came up the drive. Mewing kittens greeted him; their heating pad was still warm, but they didn’t much like being alone. They were also getting hungry.

  He changed his clothes first, tearing off the dress pants and tie. There was no end to the mistakes he’d make, apparently. It did no good, trying to be something you weren’t. Jeans and T-shirts covered him; that was all that mattered. Zeke turned on the radio in the kitchen as he gathered the supplies.

  Caring for them helped him calm down some, but it didn’t change his surety they needed to end this. It would hurt like a bitch, but he couldn’t be the man she needed, no matter how he felt about her. Sometimes longing wasn’t enough; sometimes love wasn’t enough. It sure hadn’t made his mother want to live.

  Zeke tucked the kittens into his shirt, knowing they needed the warmth and the reassurance of his heartbeat. Their little claws scrabbled at his skin and left tiny scratches; he didn’t mind. He needed them, too—and without them, he wouldn’t even have had these few weeks with her. God, it hurt, as if someone had smashed a fist through his chest and were even now crushing his heart to pulp.

  He heard her car on the road long before she turned down the driveway. By now he could identify her engine from the unique way it rumbled, its tiny knocks and pings, much as he could tell different birds apart in the woods. They each made a unique sound. If you had good ears, the sounds told a story.

  God, he didn’t look forward to this conversation.

  She came in through the kitchen instead of the parlor. Zeke listened to her moving about, distinct from the music, and then she came to the doorway. Her mouth was pale and tight, all the lipstick chewed off. He could smell disappointment on her, and it stung like lye.

  “We need to talk about what happened,” she said.

  He scented her fear, too, a sour-milk stink beneath the lye. It had taken a lot of guts for her to face him alone—and maybe lack of self-preservation, too. Even now, she wasn’t sure it was safe, and that made the beast roar. She’s ours. With effort, he fought down its anguished outrage. His animal self felt like she’d kicked it. But he’d given her reason to doubt him. More than one.

  “Gonna sleep in the barn while you’re here.” It was just too much temptation otherwise. If he saw her moving around his home, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off her. The beast wouldn’t let her be; in his head, it roared in protest. Even now he wanted to stroke her and tell her everything would be fine, that he’d never let her go and they could fix anything bad between them. Most of all, he wanted to keep that promise: I’m not going anywhere. But promises were made to be broken, and someone like him had no business making them to a woman like her.

  Her breath hitched. “What are you saying?”

  “Know what I’m saying.” He couldn’t meet her gaze, and it hurt way worse than he’d thought it would, like an echo of needles beneath his skin. Added to the heartache from before, it became damn near unbearable.

  “You don’t want to be with me anymore? Because of this? It was a little . . . over the top, I admit, but I understand why you thought I didn’t want him touching me. But that was a special circumstance.”

  Wonderful. She didn’t get it. Her emotional st
ate mattered not at all, didn’t count even slightly when it came to his animal impulses. Her preferences hadn’t even dawned on him.

  “Can’t say that was a one-time thing, Neva. If you’re around him—or anyone—and you’re mine, then I’ll do it again. Next time, might kill him.”

  “But why?”

  Zeke focused on the critters inside his shirt, their contentment instead of his own pain. “Can’t stand to see somebody else’s hands on you.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything.” Her forehead creased. “He was comforting me. I found out—”

  “Don’t matter.” He cut her off, not wanting to hear why.

  Her scent shifted from fear to hurt. In doing so, it darkened, a touch less sour in his nose, more like meat soaked in brine. But that was no better, just a different kind of wrong.

  “Maybe you could learn to control it. I mean, obviously it’s not . . . all right. What you did.”

  Zeke shoved to his feet, startling the kittens. He caught them and deposited them back in their freshly cleaned box. He turned and headed for the door. Words couldn’t fix this. Nothing could change what he was and he didn’t believe in endless talking that only turned the knife in the wound. He had been beyond stupid to think it could work, even for a little while.

  “So that’s it?” Her voice rose. “We’re done?”

  He went out the front door without looking back. Zeke almost expected her to follow him; he hoped, though it would only make the parting more painful. If she pleaded or cried, he might not be able to stand firm. God help them both.

  But she didn’t. From outside he heard her moving around the house. It took him a minute to realize she was packing. Did you think she’d stay? She’d rather be anywhere but here, now.

  So in a way, I did keep my promise. I didn’t go anywhere. I just made it so she had no choice but to do the leaving.

  A flock of snow geese lit in the distant field, resting and looking for food. Their white feathers contrasted with the dark earth. It should have been beautiful, like the cascading call of the winter wren. There was much to admire here, and yet he turned his back on all of it and strode toward the outbuilding: the perfect place to hide.