DarkWind: 2nd Book, WindDemon Trilogy (21 page)

“Drive careful,” Mike Peters called out as Dorrie pushed through the door into the streaming rain. Three feet from the door, he lost sight of her in the deluge.

She never made it to the car.

He came out of the pouring rain, his strong arms encircling her, pinning her arms to her sides, one hand slapped across her mouth, and dragged her with him into the shadows behind the building.

Struggling furiously to get away, Dorrie bucked in the steel-like grip that was bruising her ribs and pressing the air from her lungs. The man’s callused hand smelled of diesel fuel and stale cigarettes and his breath against the side of her face as he drew her deeper and deeper into the no man’s land behind the truck stop reeked of garlic and rampant tooth decay. She tried to bite him but her lips were pressed tightly to her teeth behind his filthy hand and when he moved his thumb and forefinger to her nose to cut off her air, true panic set in. She clawed at his thighs but her fingernails were too short to gain any purchase through the thick corduroy of his trousers. With the lack of oxygen rapidly turning her world black and bringing the stars down from the heavens, she began to pass out.

Lyle Drake had killed fifteen women since he turned 40 years of age three years before. He had celebrated his 40th birthday by strangling and mutilating a young hitchhiker he’d picked up on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Two months later, he killed his second victim, a pretty college student whose car had broken down on a lonely stretch of I-80. All the women had been beautiful, young, and possessing long blond hair and delicate blue eyes. Each of them had angered Lyle Drake in some fashion.

Tonight, the woman struggling in his arms had splashed him with greasy water as she drove into the parking lot, but Drake intended to see she never angered another man this side of the grave. What the Lord God Jehovah did to her once she was at the Judgement Seat was none of Lyle’s concern.

“Whore of Babylon,” he named her as he pulled her into the woods behind the truck stop. “Witch of Endor!”

By the time he had taken his victim as far into the woods as he deemed necessary, the woman was unconscious, her limp body sagging in his powerful arms. With infinite care, he laid her down on the slick detritus of leaves and pine needles and squatted over her. He gripped the front of her blouse and ripped it open, a powerful erection leaping to life at the sound of the tearing fabric.

The jerk on her clothing brought Dorrie partially awake. She coughed, gasping for breath and then came fully awake as the man atop her circled her neck with his hands and began to squeeze the life from her. She clawed at his hands, bucking beneath him like a wild thing, digging her heels into the earth. But he was too strong, too intent on killing her. His long matted hair and ragged beard was dripping with rainwater as he bent over her, pressing his thumbs into her windpipe. She stared into his crazed eyes, saw the way his lips were skinned back from his teeth as he spouted biblical passages and knew she was going to die. With the last bit of conscious thought, she screamed for help though no sound passed her blue-tinted lips.

Gray light streamed
through a slit in the draperies and fell harshly on the sleeping woman. She moaned, turning to her side to escape the intrusion. Burrowing into the soft pillow, she reached out to touch the man who always slept beside her.

She frowned as her hand patted farther away, searching for her bed partner. When she realized she was alone, she sighed and turned to her back. Very slowly she opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling.        

She blinked and blinked again for the water-stained acoustic tiles overhead were unfamiliar.

As was the musty smell filling her nostrils.

And the scratchy roughness of the sheets beneath her naked body.

Then the night’s events came back to her in a flash and Dorrie Burkhart shot up in the bed with a shriek,  her eyes wide with terror.

“You’re safe,” he said quietly.

Dorrie whimpered and snapped her head toward the man who spoke. When she saw Kamerone Cree sitting in a chair across the shadowy room, she began to shake uncontrollably.

He got up and went to her, sat on the bed and took her in his arms. “It’s all right. He’s dead.”

She did not need to ask how her attacker had died or who had killed him. Instead, she clung to Cree, burying her face against the softness of his shirt. Shuddering so badly her teeth were clicking together, she was unaware of him stretching out beside her and cradling her body against his own as he lay down with her. With infinite care, he smoothed her tousled hair and placed calming kisses along her brow.

“I...was...so...afraid.”

“I know. I heard.”

But had arrived barely in the nick of time. One minute later and Dorrie would not have survived her attack.

“W...where is h...he?”       

Cree shrugged. “Gone.”

“If t...they f...find t-the b...body... If t...they tr...trace him b...back to us...”

“They won’t,” he told her. “There isn’t anything to find.”

The memory of Cree standing on the transporter pad of the Vortex, Bridget Dunne cradled in his arms as blood dripped from his hands and chin often woke Dorrie from her sleep with a jolt.

“Remind me not to make an enemy of you, Kami.”

“Go to sleep, Lady,” he told her, settling her closer to him. “We have nowhere to go and no time to be there.”        

Dorrie woke to
find his hand on her breast. The heat of his palm sent shivers of delight through her body. One look told her he was sleeping soundly, his handsome face turned toward her as he lay on his belly. She ached to reach up and smooth away an errant lock of silky hair that had fallen across his brow, but she did not want to wake him. Quite content to lie beside him and watch him sleep, Dorrie wished with all her heart that she were the woman this man loved and not Bridget Dunne.

“I would never deny you anything,” whispered Dorrie, her gaze moving over his ruddy face. “I would move heaven and hell to make you happy, Kamerone Cree.”

The thick sweep of his dark lashes lifted and those remarkable amber eyes staring at her caused a quickening in her womb and she knew he had once more intercepted her thoughts. He stared at her for a long time then the hand covering her breast tightened gently.

“Cree...” she began but he withdrew his hand and placed a finger to her lips, denying her.

“I belong to her.”

Dorrie took his hand and held it. “And if she doesn’t want you?” she asked, searching his eyes.

“She does,” he answered. “But right now, she’s angry with me. She’ll get over it.”

“What if she doesn’t?”

He didn’t want to believe that would happen so he dismissed the question. “Are you hungry?”

Knowing the subject was closed and now off limits, Dorrie sighed with exasperation. “Aye, Reaper, but not for food.”        

Cree chuckled. “Slut,” he teased and turned to his back. He stretched then sat up, wincing as his hand encountered the empty vac-syringe of triso he’d used during the night.

Dorrie pushed herself up in the bed and watched him as he padded barefoot to the bathroom and opened the door. “Where are we, anyway?”

“For lack of a better word, my home,” he answered. “At least for the time being.”

She frowned as she took in the tawdry surroundings. Without having to ask, she knew the room had to be in a rundown motel. The vinyl chair sitting askew of the round Formica table, the wall hung double dresser and nightstands were a dead giveaway.

“Either you enjoy subjecting yourself to such morbid digs or you didn’t have much money last night.”

“I took all the money you had in your purse to pay for these delightful accommodations, my love.”

Dorrie grunted. “I should have known.” She swung her legs off the mattress. “So I guess that means we don’t have any money for breakfast, huh?”

“Guess not,” he replied as he walked to the chair and sat down to pull on his boots.

“You’re not seriously considering staying here, are you?”

He shrugged. “I’ve nowhere else to go.”

“Aye, you do. You’re going home with me,” she challenged, expecting him to refuse.

“Good,” he said, surprising her. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Then he frowned. “Will McGregor mind?”

Dorrie turned as she was walking into the bathroom and looked at him. “Raine moved out yesterday afternoon,” she told him. “I guess he got tired of me or else he’s found a Terran woman who is titillated by his boyish charms.”

“And you’re not,” he stated.

“He’s a boy,” Dorrie said. “I prefer men.” She winked then walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

Cree sat there for a moment, staring at the worn carpet, disgusted by the smell of the place and the offensive clash of colors and fabrics.

“Have I been reduced to this?” he asked softly, remembering the elite accommodations he had taken for granted aboard FSK-14. His yearly credits could have purchased outright a dozen such dilapidated establishments such as this.

On his world, he had been at the apex of his class. He had been respected, feared, catered to at every turn. His had been an elite existence where nothing was denied and everything provided. His every wish had been fulfilled. But now....

He closed his eyes and hung his head. His heart ached and he was tired to the very marrow of his bones. He felt useless, worthless on Bridget’s world and without her he felt lost. She was his guiding star, his reason for living, and at the moment, she wanted nothing to do with him. He wondered how long it would be before her anger turned to apathy then slipped into dislike. He knew he had to make her understand why he could not bond with their son as she wanted him to.

“You ready, Reaper?” Dorrie asked.

He looked up. This woman, he thought as he came to his feet, would do anything he asked. She would care for him, she would look after him, and she would love him if he encouraged it. At the moment, her interest in him was more sexual than spiritual and he had to be very careful he did not allow her feelings for him to become anything more than physical desire.

“Aye, Lady,” he whispered, avoiding looking at her open face.

Kamerone Cree would have been stunned to know that Dorrie Burkhart had fallen in love with him the first time she saw him on FSK-14. And though the incident had such little meaning for him that he had dismissed it from his mind, she had once flirted with him as they passed in the corridor. Since he had ignored her, she’d turned her love at first sight to sarcasm when he was delivered into her hands in the Be-Mod 9 unit.

There was a light mist falling as Cree opened the door for her and Dorrie walked out of the motel room. She stared at her car-one wheel over the curb, the vehicle angled into the parking slot so that it took up three spaces-and turned to him. “You are a piss-poor driver, Reaper.”

Cree shrugged. “But give me a starcruiser and I can conquer the universe.”   

Dorrie snorted and held out her hand. “Give me the keys.”

“I’ll drive,” he responded, fishing the keys from his jacket pocket and dangling them on his forefinger.

“No, you won’t!” She snatched the keys. “I’d like to live to see my next birthday.”

“Picky, picky, picky.”

“Shut up,” she ordered, but their eyes met and they smiled at one another.

To one of them, the smile was an easy giving of trust.

But to the other, it was bestowed with deepening love.           

Major Akkadia
Kahmal paced the floor of the conference room with a heavy scowl in place. For three days now, ever since they had come so close to capturing the Reaper, the team had been plotting scenario after scenario and none of the suggestions had been deemed worthy of an attempt.

With the cloaking device in place, the long-range starcruiser could not be picked up by the primitive Terran radar. But each day they were forced to cool their heels in orbit, was one less day they had before obtaining their goal: the capture and, ultimately, the execution of Kamerone Cree.

“He has become more cautious,” Lieutenant Melankhoia Chanz reminded her fellow team members. “We must bide our time until he relaxes his guard.”

“Something he will not do,” said Lieutenant Augeania Deon.

“We must find a way to make him,” suggested Cirolia Sern.

“Where is he now?” asked Thalia Chakai, the Captain of the LRSC Aluvial.

“Living with the whore, Burkhart,” replied Melankhoia.

Akkadia stopped pacing and turned to the others. “Does his woman know this?”

“We do not believe she does,” Cirolia answered.

The leader of the Strike Force came to the conference table around which sat the other four members of her team, the Captain of the ship, and the lone Healer who had accompanied them from Amazeen, and braced her fists on the tabletop.      

“Then she should be told immediately,” Akkadia recommended.

“Why is this important?” the Captain asked.