“The woman had been in Raye’s room. The pillow and the mattress were hacked to pieces.”
“At least Raye wasn’t.”
“True. But John doesn’t know where Raye is.”
Bobby’s gaze flicked to the bedroom doorway. She lay in the middle of her bed, hair tousled from his hands, mouth swollen from his lips, her body lethargic from his— “She’s at her apartment.”
The chief cursed. “I’ll get someone over there.”
“No,” Bobby said.
“Doucet, the first guy tried to kill her. Now this woman did too. She needs to be protected.”
“She is.”
“Oh.” Silence settled over the line.
Bobby drew his hand over his jaw, the rasp of his beard so loud the chief had to have heard it. Bobby hadn’t wanted to announce his business. Then again, in a town of this size, his car parked on the street out front already had. He was surprised the chief hadn’t heard about it before now.
“I won’t let her out of my sight,” Bobby promised.
Johnson sighed. “I suppose I have to be the one to tell her father.”
Bobby remembered the Magnum. He wished he hadn’t given it back.
“Maybe you could just say she’s safe at home.”
“Not a chance, hotshot.” Johnson hung up.
“Dammit.” While he wouldn’t wish away the hours he’d just spent, he did find himself wishing away this town and everyone in it but them. Perhaps when this was over he’d take Raye … where? New Orleans?
Why not?
She lay crosswise on the bed, one bare, smooth, pale shoulder gleaming in the faint silver light of the moon. The thought of her anywhere, looking like that, was nearly impossible to resist. Considering the danger here he should take her anywhere. Immediately.
He spotted her laptop on the table. The “sleep” light pulsed, and he opened the top, clicked a key, waited while the machine sprang to life. It wouldn’t hurt to check airline reservations, just for the fun of it.
He never got that far. When the screen went live, so did the last thing Raye had been searching for.
“Venatores Mali,” he murmured.
How in hell did she know about that?
Chapter 16
I awoke confused.
Where was I? Who was I? What day was it?
I didn’t care for the feeling. I couldn’t recall ever having it, except for the never-voiced concern over the second question—would I ever truly know who I was?—I was always in New Bergin and every day was similar enough to the last so as not to matter. Unless it was a weekend.
I opened my eyes. My apartment. Nine A.M. I certainly hoped it was the weekend. Had to be. If I weren’t in class by now, the phone would have rung. Someone would probably have pounded on the door too.
I sat up, realized I was naked at the same time I saw Bobby Doucet sipping coffee in my living room. Everything came back—the good along with the bad. But the best realization …
It was Sunday.
My robe lay on the floor. The sight of it there explained my confusion upon waking and the—for me—late hour of doing so. Every synapse in my body and my mind had been fried by a plurality of orgasms. I retrieved the robe and put it on.
Bobby wore jeans and nothing else. My lips curved. Perhaps one more wouldn’t kill me.
He must have sensed my stare, or heard me move, because he looked up. “Morning.”
Something was wrong. Had there been another murder? Was my father all right? Had Bobby seen or sensed Genevieve or one of the others?
My eyes cut to the door, but the rosemary still lay across the floor at the base, undisturbed. I should probably disturb it. Lately, the ghosts had been all that stood between me and death. I shouldn’t bar them for long.
Bobby sipped his coffee, staring at me over the rim with a strange expression in his eyes. As if he didn’t know me, or, maybe, he just didn’t trust me.
After last night, I thought he knew me pretty well. But trust? That was a different ball game.
“Morning,” I returned, my voice cooler than it should be, considering, but so was his. Was that normal? I had no idea. I’d never had a morning-after experience. My single time sleeping with someone had not involved sleeping, or the morning. Still, I’d thought it would be better. Cuddling, coffee, reading the paper in bed.
The paper! I crossed to the door, opened it. The day was cool and clear, a glorious autumn morning. One of the reasons—perhaps the only reason—to live in Wisconsin at all was autumn. Summers were short and often shitty. Winters were long and always so. Spring? Never saw one. But autumn in the Badger State was as close to bliss as it got.
A crisp breeze blew the rosemary away as I snatched the paper off the landing.
New Bergin still published a newspaper, which was delivered to everyone’s doorstep. It only came out on Sundays, but that was enough most of the time. I glanced at the headline, which blared MURDER! What had I expected? The usual rehash of the town council meeting and the high school football score?
As I set the paper on the kitchen table I noticed my laptop. Open, running, and revealing the last thing I had Googled.