Disturbance (18 page)

“She can’t communicate,” Parrish had once said. “She can’t move. What do you find so fascinating about her?”

“The same thing you do,” Donovan had replied, always willing to lie to his father. “Her helplessness.”

Parrish had laughed, and Donovan had known then that he had inadvertently told at least half the truth—that was part of why Parrish kept her around.

Donovan thought of her now, as he made his way back to his car. She would be lying in the dark in a windowless room upstairs, receiving very few visits from anyone other than Kai.

He wondered if Parrish had brought her to the mountains as a living reminder of the fate that had nearly been his own.

N
icholas Parrish strolled down a pathway leading to an empty cabin. He walked slowly, apparently relaxed, but anger flowed through every inch of his veins. He was fully aware that Kai and Quinn were not fooled by his show of nonchalance, a fact that led to his further irritation with both them and himself.

Something had changed. Not all that many years ago, he was completely master of himself and anyone he chose to dominate.

But then came the injury.

He thought of it now as
the
injury, even though it was hardly the first time he had been wounded. Before the end of his first few years of childhood, he had become a specialist in enduring pain. Every now and then, memories of those years broke through carefully constructed mental barriers and into his consciousness. They always made him feel a kind of burning rage, for which he had found only one remedy.

Those experiences, he knew, would have destroyed a lesser man.

Injury was not, therefore, something he feared. He had grown taller and stronger and eventually turned on his torturer
and repaid her in kind. Many years had passed before he again sustained any serious wound.

Most he had obtained in the course of his hunting. There were those moments—those beautiful, thrilling moments—when he first took hold of a victim. Quite often, those were also the moments in which he suffered minor injuries. He thought longingly now of several of his victims, considered them one by one, reliving that first contact with each: grasping and pulling her against him, her panic as she struggled ineffectively against his superior strength. They were dangerous, those moments before she was completely subdued, because those were the ones in which, despite all his careful planning, there was a slight chance she might escape. So he endured bites, bruises, scratches, kicks—whatever might occur during those struggles—knowing he could withstand much more pain than any victim was likely to try to deal to him.

And then Irene Kelly changed the game.

Even before the injury to his spine, she had been responsible for a serious wound to his shoulder. Had he been an ordinary man, that would have been his undoing. The wound had become infected and caused him a great deal of trouble. That had angered him—surprised him, even—but he had not doubted his ability to achieve revenge.

And then, a few months later, disaster. For the first time in his life, he had failed to kill his intended victims. It should have been easy, doing away with her and her crippled friend. The failure had nearly led to his death.

He felt the bitterness of that failure as he recalled it, replayed it again and again in his mind. Irene Kelly. She had been the one who caused him to be so severely injured—a second time! And worse than the first.

Where was his old self-confidence, his invincibility?

No. He must not let himself fall prey to self-doubt. That would be what anyone else would do.

He was … resurrected. Stronger than ever.

He had studied other killers. He had studied criminal profiling. He knew all the assumptions the police, the FBI, and others were making. Men of his type—they believed they had seen his “type” before—were supposed to work alone, or with one dominated accomplice. He smiled to himself at the thought of their current bafflement.

The smile didn’t last long. His thoughts had circled back to Kai and Quinn.

He anticipated inevitable problems with each of his sons—lions never remained cubs, and only a fool tried to make pets of them. Kai had not matured enough to control his impetuous nature. Quinn was so power-hungry, he’d find world domination to be nothing more than a good start. And Donovan …

Parrish smiled to himself. Donovan might be more like his old man than the other two could possibly imagine. The question was, could Donovan himself be brought to imagine it? In time, in time …

Parrish turned and walked back toward the lodge. His temper was back under control now. He could focus his mind on making the best possible next move and face Kai and Quinn in a better state of mind. He would show them, once again, that he was master here—master of his sons and master of himself.

Irene Kelly had meddled again—the invasion of Kai’s home at this juncture was a nuisance, but it would not help police as much as she undoubtedly hoped it would. She would suffer for her interference.

He thought of Donovan’s report. He was pleased Donovan was keeping such a close eye on her. It was time, he decided, for the next phase of setting the trap.

At just about three o’clock on a gray October afternoon, I sat alone at a small table in the back corner of the Busy Bee Café, not far from the radio station, finishing a late lunch. I usually ate with a group from the station, but today I had worked through the noon hour to complete a story and hadn’t left the building until two.

However busy the bee was, the café was quiet at that hour. Like many small eateries in the district, it catered to the business crowd, open for breakfast and lunch only. So not long before closing, I was the last diner—or thought I was. I was finishing up a turkey sandwich when a florid-faced man came waddling through the door.

He made his way directly to my table, staring so intently as he loomed over me, I felt some alarm. Although his hair was reddish brown, it looked dyed, an act of vanity that was at odds with his otherwise careless appearance. His face was lined and puffy under the eyes. I judged him to be about sixty. He was wearing a sweat-stained, oversized T-shirt and looked as if he was smuggling half a beach ball under the front of it. His arms were brawny and his shoulders wide, making me think he was someone who had once been athletic
but had long since devoted himself to inertia as a hobby.

In the next instant, I scolded myself for judging him in this way. Perhaps some illness or injury prevented him from being active. I knew nothing about the man.

“I know you!” he said, startling me. He plopped down in the only other chair at the table, effectively pinning me into the corner. I felt my back stiffen and looked around for an ally.

The place was empty. I heard the kitchen staff clattering pots and pans in the back, probably washing up. The waitress was nowhere to be seen. I took a calming breath, reached for my cell phone, and reminded myself that Ethan, Mark, and Lydia knew where I was. The waitress and other café staff were within shouting distance. Besides, it was nearly closing time, so they would probably be back out here soon—and tell him he’d have to look elsewhere for a meal.

He extended a large but stubby-fingered hand and said, “Roderick!”

When I didn’t take it, he pointed at me and said, “Irene Kelly! I’ve got a story for you.”

This happens to me now and then—not the pointing but the pestering. My photo used to run next to my byline in the
Express
, and the paper apparently hadn’t been dead long enough to allow me the lack of public recognition I preferred. “Great. Please feel free to call the station and suggest it. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to leave. I’m on a deadline.”

“Already tried. They don’t get it at the radio station, but I think you will. You can talk them into it. I’ll walk you over there.”

“No, Roderick, you won’t. Now—”

“I just need someone to listen to me! What the fuck is wrong with you people?”

My apprehensiveness went up another notch. If I called for help from the back, he could be over the table before anyone came
out to see what was wrong. And they might not do anything right away. I could try using my new self-defense skills, if I could get out from behind the table. But if he was as volatile and hostile as I thought he might be, I should call in the professionals.

“I’m sorry you’ve been frustrated,” I tried in a placatory tone while at the same time pressing 9 and 1 on the phone. Before I could get the next 1 entered, he reached across the table with surprising speed and knocked the phone from my hand.

I drew a breath for a scream, but before I could let it out, a commanding voice said, “Stand up and step away from her table. Do it now.”

I caught a glimpse of a tall, golden-haired man before he was blocked from my view by Roderick, who stood and turned angrily toward the stranger. Roderick took a step forward, his right fist raised to deliver a punch.

“You don’t want to try it,” the man said.

Roderick froze in place, then suddenly looked as if someone had taken the air out of him. His shoulders sagged, and he stared down at his feet. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Get out,” the man said, “and don’t ever bother this woman again. Do you understand me?”

Roderick started to push past him with ill grace, but the man put a flat hand on his chest. “Do you understand me?” he said again, more quietly but somehow with greater menace.

“Yes!” Roderick said.

“Fine. We’re going to wait here for you to get down the street and around the corner. Do not look back. Do not try to follow either of us. Understood?”

Roderick nodded. The man stepped aside, and Roderick left.

The man, who looked to be in his early thirties, turned to me and said, “Are you all right?”

I was shaking. “Yes, thank you. That was—that was good of you.”

He smiled slightly and bent to pick up my phone, glanced at it, then pulled out his own and asked me if I wanted him to call the police.

I pictured what that might bring on, especially from well-meaning friends.

“No, thanks,” I said. I was disappointed in myself—I used to be able to handle the Rodericks of this world without falling apart.

My rescuer brought my phone to me just as the waitress came out to say, “Sorry, we’re closed.”

I quickly explained what had happened. Her eyes widened and she quickly locked the door, as if expecting Roderick to return. I felt shakier still.

The man spoke up. “Why don’t you bring a cup of”—he turned to me—“coffee? Tea?”

“Hot tea, thanks,” I said, turning to her. “If it won’t be too much trouble?”

“Not at all!” she said. “And for you, sir?”

“Hot tea sounds good,” he said, sitting at the next table, giving me, I noticed, some space—and positioning himself to watch the door.

“Thank you again,” I said.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Is your phone working?”

I tried turning it on. “Hell. He broke it.”

“Do you want me to find him, get him to pay for it?”

I shook my head. “No, the less I see of Roderick, the better. I want no excuses for him to remain in contact with me.”

He studied me briefly and said, “Are you feeling faint?”

“Just a little wobbly. I’ll be okay in a minute.”

“Add sugar to that tea,” he recommended and went back to watching the door.

The waitress brought the tea, I added the sugar to mine, and with each sip, I felt myself grow calmer.

The man drank his, sitting there quietly, keeping guard.

“I’m Irene,” I said. “Irene Kelly.”

He smiled ruefully. “At the risk of freaking you out, I know. You used to work for the
Express
, and now you work for KCLP. I’ve thought about contacting you several times.”

“Oh?” I said, surprised but not feeling threatened. His manner was entirely different from Roderick’s.

“Yes. When you worked for the paper, you wrote a series about people who were missing—including one about missing children, right?”

“Yes. The series started a long time ago, with my mentor,” I said, thinking wistfully of O’Connor. Then the import of his question hit me. “Is someone in your family missing?”

“Yes,” he said. “Maybe someday I’ll call the station and tell you about it. I won’t bother you at lunch, though.”

“I’d be happy to help if I can,” I said.

“Thanks. But you don’t owe me any favors for helping you today.” He saw that I had finished my tea. “Is there someone you want to call to meet you here and walk you back to the station? You can borrow my phone if you’d like.”

I considered this for a moment, then pictured the combination of bad timing and the awkwardness of the request I’d be making. “They’ll be madly working to be ready for tonight’s broadcast. I’ll be okay.”

“How about if I walk you back there? Just to be on the safe side.”

I hesitated, then said, “I’d appreciate that.”

As we left, I started
asking myself if I was nuts. I didn’t know this guy any better than I knew Roderick. He was lean and fit, and dressed neatly. Had I let that lull me? I didn’t even know his—

“I’m Donovan,” he said, not trying to shake hands or even walk close to me. He was watching the street, not me. I relaxed.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

He asked me how I liked working in radio and mentioned an interview of mine he had enjoyed, one with a local physics professor about the Large Hadron Collider.

“Fortunately,” I said, “the professor realized I didn’t know what I was talking about and dumbed it down for me.”

“No, he just made it accessible for nonscientists who were listening to the program. Quite a change from stories on city hall, though.”

I admitted that our small staff size meant I covered stories on subjects I never would have covered for the paper. “I’m back to being a general assignment reporter. I don’t mind, really—I enjoy the variety.” We were at the station doors by then. “Thanks again,” I said, “and please do call me if you think I can help you.”

“Maybe I will.” He glanced back toward the street, then said, “I’ll wait here until you’re inside. I can see that Roderick has been following us.”