Forsaken (7 page)

Blood spurted like an oil well gone amok.

Roc rolled his eyes and scrunched down in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. When would this movie end? Surrounded by the Amish teens he'd met a week ago, he laughed inwardly at their grunts and groans when axes split heads like melons—
Hollywood probably used cantaloupe and honeydew
—but Roc had seen blood as thick as Log Cabin syrup, smelled death where the rotting odors forced him to smoke a cigar to counter its effect, and tasted the coppery tang of fear. This horror flick didn't come close.

His cell phone vibrated in his hip pocket, and he reached for it as he slid out of his seat and up the aisle, jogging through the swinging theater door and into the bright lights of the lobby with its orange and purple carpet. “Roc here.”

“Have the Amish converted you yet?” Mike's voice came over the line extra loud and Roc turned down the volume.

Roc paced in front of a row of gaming machines with
Star Wars
lasers and
Terminator
weaponry. “Yeah, I'm at church right now.”

“Well, say a prayer.”

“What's up? Too early for the DNA test on the New Orleans Amish gal.”

“A body was found. South of Promise.”

Roc went as still as a predator on the hunt. “The missing teen? Ruby—”

“It's not official yet but looks like it. Don't say anything.”

“Who am I going to tell? Jesus?”

“He knows.”

“So who was the gal in New Orleans?”

Mike cleared his throat. “Brody thinks it's a local girl out having fun on Halloween.”

“You mean trick-or-treating as an Amish?”

“Yep. Just a costume.”

Roc laid a hand against the wall to steady himself. So he'd been sent here on some wild monster chase? He had to see this new body, see if there were any signs the two murders (three counting Emma) were related. Otherwise, he'd head back to Louisiana tonight. “Where are you, Mike? Still at the scene?”

“Not my jurisdiction. I'm just passing along the information.”

“I need to see the body.”

“Look, I saw the pictures. They're similar to the ones you sent of the trick-or-treater. Like Little Red Riding Hood, the Grimm's version, ya know what I mean?”

Unfortunately.

***

“Man, you missed it.” Caleb Esch veered away from the group of teens emerging from the theater and headed toward Roc, who pocketed his cell phone. The teen had a relaxed, loose-limbed gait and hair like a thatch of hay on the top of his head.

Roc nodded toward the theater where the pounding music poured out through the doorway. “How'd it end?”

“More blood.”

The popcorn hardened in Roc's belly as he looked at the teens gathered around him—young and innocent, even in their rebellion. “I'm going to have to get going.”

“You got a hot date?” The words came from the teen, Zachariah, who looked from the neck up like he belonged in the eighteenth century and from the neck down like he could be on MTV, which only made Roc's grin broaden.

“Something like that.” He palmed his keys.

With the lingering scent of popcorn and manufactured butter clinging to them, they pushed out into the crisp evening air. The cinema was sandwiched between a Wal-Mart and a hardware store. As they moved into the parking lot, the boys heading toward an
English
friend's truck and Roc toward his Mustang, Luke shouldered him. “We'll be on Straight Edge Road this weekend. Will we see you then?”

“If I'm still in town.” He sensed he was on the right trail, but if the trail led elsewhere he'd be out of there.

“That your date?” Caleb gave a nod, his gaze fixed on something in the distance.

Roc followed the trajectory to a sleek red Ferrari. The woman inside had long, black hair, straight and gleaming as if polished. She wore dark shades, even though the sun was no longer a threat this evening. She was definitely looking in their direction, and she gave them a slow smile, her lipstick-red lips parting in a seductive invitation.

Adam laughed. “Roc would have to upgrade from Keystone Light.”

“You better watch out!” Zachariah turned his back on her. “She's the one that drinks chicken blood.”

His comment turned Roc's blood to ice. He brushed past his Amish friends and began walking toward the sleek car, his stride long and determined, but as he got within twenty feet, the tinted window raised and the Ferrari took off, tires squealing, engine roaring as it swerved out of the parking lot. Roc's pace quickened as he launched into a run and cut through the parking lot toward his Mustang, keeping his gaze on the rear of the Ferrari, trying to catch a glimpse of the license plate.

“Go get her, Roc!” one of the teen's hollered to the accompaniment of cheers, whistles, and laughs behind him.

By the time he jumped into the driver's seat, sweat prickled his forehead. He cranked the engine, but it stalled, and Roc slammed a hand against the steering wheel. He tried twice more before the engine caught, and he peeled out of the parking lot. But the red-hot Ferrari was gone. Roc stomped on the pedal, jerking the wheel as he whipped around cars that seemed bent on getting in his way. He leaned over the steering wheel, sweat trickling down his spine, as he frantically searched the streets—why, he wasn't exactly sure, other than the lady had a reputation for exotic drinks. But at this point she was his only lead, and so he punched the gas and flew through a succession of yellow lights before he caught sight of the Ferrari cruising in the opposite direction.

He slammed on his brakes and wheeled the Mustang around until he came even with the high-priced sports car. That tinted window slowly descended and revealed the woman, laughing now. Laughing at him? She flicked a curtain of hair off her shoulder, and he could see her smooth mahogany skin. Was she toying with him? Playing some kind of game? Her expensive car slowed and came to a sudden stop. Roc glanced up in time to see the red light and slammed on his brakes, jerking to a stop beside her.

He reached for the door handle, with a plan to confront her, but the woman motioned with her forefinger for him to roll down his passenger window. He cursed the age of his car and leaned over to palm the lever, pumping his arm as the window descended.

“You are one determined man.” She had an exotic voice, low and sexy, with a lilt that reminded him of the tropics, something like Jamaican or maybe Creole.

“I can be.”

With her mahogany skin and fine bone structure, beautiful seemed too easy a word to define her, and yet it missed its mark. She was stunning, striking, with her dark hair and skin that looked as silky as satin sheets and instantly brought to mind images of lingerie. She gave a slow smile, her lips closed and pulling sideways in a seductive leer. “I like that in a man.”

“You're from Louisiana?” he said, having noticed her license plate earlier.

“New Orleans,” she said in that rolling cadence only one born in the Big Easy could manage, “and you?”

“Same.”

“And we had to come all this way north to meet, did we? Or are you following me?”

“Would I have reason to?”

She winked. “Many men would say so.” Her finger trailed the line of her collarbone to the deep cleft between her breasts. “But you tell me.”

He had to speak to this woman, other than the ping-pong of flirtatious comments. He had to know if what the Amish teens said—that she drank blood—was true, but sitting at a red light was not the right place. Not knowing what else to say, Roc asked, “You want to have a drink somewhere?”

She lowered her shades and peered at him over the dark rims. Her eyes were black, like what he'd heard described as a hole in space, and he had the sensation that he was falling into her gaze, falling and unable to stop or retreat. “I have already had a drink this evening, and one is my limit. But I will take you up on your offer soon,
ma cherie,
very soon I am thinking.”

Minutes melted into what felt like seconds. A spell of some sort wrapped around Roc, thin threads holding him fast, and then the blast of a horn jolted him, snapped the threads and released him from wherever he had been taken captive. Her smile spread wide, dazzling and beguiling, as she flashed her white teeth at him. Then at the most leisurely pace, the Ferrari rolled forward with lethal grace.

He followed, letting cars edge between them but still keeping that tantalizing red rear in view. She ended up doubling back, crisscrossing her path, and he suspected she was trying to lose him. Or maybe she was toying with him again.

The thought struck him in that hypersensitive area at the back of the neck and made those tiny hairs stand upright. It was the same feeling he got when he instinctively knew something was being held back during a suspect interview, and it only made him dig deeper, push harder.

The red Ferrari turned into a brick parking garage, and when Roc reached the gated arm a minute later, he grabbed a ticket from the machine and inched forward, heading up the ramp. He scanned the parked vehicles on either side of him, but in his rearview mirror, something snagged his attention and he saw
her
walking along the sidewalk.
How'd she park so fast? And where?
But it didn't matter. He needed to follow her.

He jerked the wheel and pulled into the nearest space, which wasn't actually a parking spot. He jumped out, noticing the Mustang was crooked, then he ran back down the steep concrete and out onto the street. He paused for a minute, his breath coming hard and fast, telling him he'd ignored his workout regimen for too long. He waited to spot her again, but when he didn't, he walked toward the corner of a traffic-congested street.

There he waited, watched the cars passing, horns blaring, and his muscles tensed. The chill of the evening wafted over. He was more out of practice in tailing a suspect than he realized. What had been second nature to him when he was on the force now took more effort. He'd grown lax serving daiquiris.

After a few minutes of standing on the curb like an idiot, he headed back to the parking garage. He'd find the Ferrari, search it if possible, and then wait for her to return.

But then he saw her.

She was walking along the street in spiky high heels and a dress constructed with one thing in mind—sex, hot and steamy with easy access. Not exactly fall evening attire here in Pennsylvania, but she didn't seem to be bothered by the crisp air. She had an elegant, graceful way of moving. But she wasn't alone. A man walked beside her. Even though he was a head taller, they matched strides. He had dark hair, pale skin—a walking contradiction—and he wore a black leather jacket that had a custom fit.

Roc kept his gaze bonded to them and jogged across the street, dodging a car and then an Amish girl puttering along on a red scooter. The couple, looking as exotic as a palm tree growing in Pennsylvania, moved together, the woman talking, emphasizing her words with flowing hand motions, the man staring straight ahead, without a glance in her direction or responding to her in any way, as if he didn't care what she was saying. Roc couldn't imagine too many men ignored this woman. Or that she allowed it.

In between two brick buildings, they turned left into what appeared to be an alleyway. A dumpster overflowed with waste and the smell rolled out of it, creeping toward the street. Roc followed, and as he entered the alley, whispers teased his ears. He glanced up above him, searching the windows of the buildings, the fire escapes, the doorways. When halfway along the narrow passageway that held a battery of closed doors that led to restaurant kitchens and storage rooms, he realized it was a dead end. His footsteps slowed but never faltered.
Never reveal a weakness.
He took two more deliberate steps, then whirled around.

There they were—standing casually apart, the woman with one hip cocked, the man with feet spread and arms at his side. It was a non-threatening stance, and yet Roc sensed the threat like a rabbit senses a wolf on the prowl. Danger pervaded the air. The inside of his arm flexed, and he felt the solidness of his Glock in its holster.

The woman's lips curled in a seductive smile. “You want something,
ma cherie
?”

“You.” His answer surprised him.

She slid a hand along her thigh. “It is no surprise.” She lifted her sunglasses to the crown of her head, hooking her hair behind her ears and giving a glimpse of the long column of her neck. “But this desire comes with a price, no?”

“Does it?”

She looked at the man beside her. “You tell him, Akiva. You have paid this price.”

The man named Akiva scowled at her. “You would know about that, wouldn't you? But you'll never know the exact cost.”

She shrugged as if it didn't matter.

Roc noted the man's accent, not quite the clipped Pennsylvania enunciation he'd been hearing all week and nothing at all like the woman's. His gaze shifted between them. It's then he realized they had the same eyes, dark and fathomless, and the sensation that he was falling unbalanced him.

“This isn't my concern. Do what you wish with him.” A note of boredom made Akiva's voice flat.

“Are you sure?” she cooed. “You won't be jealous? You won't interfere?”

“Is that what you're doing?” Akiva gave a sputtering, mocking laugh and took a step back as if to show he was disengaged.

The woman turned her gaze away from Akiva then and onto Roc. “So, tell me, Roc Girouard…”

His name on her tongue shocked him. “How do you know—?”

“I know many things about you. This is true.” She walked toward him, those eyes holding him in place, faint whispers filling his head. “I know about your father; how long it has been since you've been with a woman”—her voice embraced him like a heavy cloud of perfume and muddled his thinking—“even what happened to the one you loved.”