Head Start (Cedar Tree #7) (32 page)

Lars Cayman, which turns out to be the name on his birth certificate, which was discovered along with some journals, was one sick and twisted puppy. From what Jasper was able to piece together, he grew up the only child of a single mother. Sarah Cayman, a recent nursing school graduate at the time, was the daughter of a Mormon priest who grew up near Monticello, Utah. When she became pregnant out of wedlock at the age of twenty-two, the young nurse was expelled from the family and their strict congregation by her father. She ended up finding work and living a rather reclusive life in New Mexico with her young child. She committed suicide when Lars was only sixteen. Police reports from that time showed Lars as the person to find his mother hanging from a tree in their backyard. A coroner’s report indicated open wounds on her back along with substantial scarring. Wounds he did not believe could have been self-inflicted. According to the journals the FBI found in Cayman’s house, Sarah Cayman was convinced since Lars was the reason she was cast out of the
fold
, he should be responsible for her redemption. So from around the age of six, he had been made to believe that it was up to him to give his mother the wings she had lost.

I can’t help but feel sickened at what the boy grew up around and was genetically burdened with. But other than giving me a better grasp on why, the information doesn’t change the hate I feel toward the man he became. Deranged, predatory, calculating and narcissistic in his view of himself as some kind of savior. Part of me hopes he succumbs to the injuries he sustained at my hands.

Soon I have the house back in view. As the dog and I make our way to the guesthouse in the back, I’m thinking it’s not reasonable for me to believe this can all be kept secret from her. She’ll find out. Maybe not immediately but there is no way this kind of twisted tale won’t become fodder for the media. I’d rather she hear it from me than the hyped up, mangled versions the networks and newspapers will likely come up with.

I don’t see her when I walk in the door, but I can hear water running in the bathroom. The moment I unclip the dog’s leash, he heads to the bathroom door and lies down in front of it.

“Come here, boy. Let me get you dinner.” I try to coax him into the kitchen and out of the way of the door. Don’t want Kendra to trip over him. It isn’t until I put his food bowl down that he leaves his guard duty. While he eats, I go listen at the bathroom door. The water is still running as it was before but I don’t hear anything else. I try the doorknob and to my surprise it turns freely in my hand. I push the door open, but what I see almost brings me to my knees.

K
endra

Why does it feel like my skin is crawling? When I woke up, I wasn’t sure where I was, until Neil spoke and my eyes found him. A sense of calm came over me and for a moment, everything seemed to settle in place. My voice sounded like a stranger’s when I spoke, yet oddly...right. I watched his lips move as he said something about taking the dog. Then they were gone, both Neil and Chaos. And I feel like my world is tilting on its axis as I look at the closed door.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there, staring at the door when I lean forward and suddenly feel something shift against me. Right. My crutches. And I need to pee. Gritting my teeth against the discomfort and fighting through the fear of suddenly finding myself alone, I manage to get on my feet and wobble unsteadily on my crutches to the bathroom. After taking care of business, I notice the big tub which is looking very inviting. I haven’t had more than sponge baths for over a week and had my hair washed at the sink two days ago. Without thinking, I start running the water. I strip off the shirt and sweats Naomi had brought over, but when I stand up again, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, something I’d managed to avoid so far. It’s like looking at someone else. My face is gaunt, my eyes dull, set deep and circled dark. My hair is flat on one side and sticking out all over on the other. Lips chapped and bruised on the side of my face. Before I can stop myself, my eyes trail lower, but other than some faint bruising, I can’t see anything remarkable, other than the old scars under my breasts. Then I slightly turn my back to the mirror and thick ridges of red, swollen skin rise up in an unidentifiable pattern where he cut me. I’d felt them when the stitches had been removed yesterday, but I hadn’t seen them. I’d made sure nobody else did either and had sent Neil from the room. Again.

Mesmerized at the sight and the size of my injuries, I try to twist my torso to have a better look when the door opens.

“Baby,” Neil’s tortured voice sounds from behind me, and I swing around. I almost lose my balance when strong arms slip around me. “Steady now. I’ve got you.” The deep rumble of his voice settles warmly under my skin. I haven’t been able to
feel
much this past week, both because of the medication and because I’ve been afraid to. But I feel this. His warmth behind me, his arms safely around me, and the press of his lips against my shoulder. It’s as close as I’ve let him come, but now that he’s here, I don’t want him to ever let go.

“Don’t let go,” I whisper, giving voice to my thoughts.

“Never,” he softly but firmly returns. When his arms loosen around me, leaving one hand on my hip to steady me, I’m suddenly cold. It’s got to be close to 85 degrees out there, and still goosebumps rise on my skin. Neil reaches around me, turning off the tap. The bath is full and I hadn’t even noticed. “Sit down on the toilet and let me get a bag to tie around your ankle. Don’t want it to get wet.”

I hold on to the edge of the counter and look at myself again. Nothing has changed from earlier, except my eyes. They looked flat just a few minutes ago—now I can see life there. “Neil!” I call out, my voice still a bit rusty. Heavy footsteps sound before he appears in the door, alarm on his face. “I’m okay,” I quickly tell him. “Do you have your phone on you?”

His expression changes from concerned to puzzled. “It’s on the counter, do you need someone?”

“No. I don’t need anyone else. Just the phone please.”

He’s back in a flash, holding out his phone to me. I scroll through the menu until I find what I want. “Here,” I hand the phone back to him. “I want you to take a picture of my back.” I watch his eyes change through a range of emotions in the mirror. Worry, fear, pride—but they settle on tender.

“You sure, Pup?” he asks, in a voice that matches the look on his face.

I am sure. Positive in fact. This has not been me—I have not been myself—but it’s been enough. I look at myself in the mirror. I’ve already given that son of a bitch more than enough of me. He doesn’t get any more. I’m taking it all back.

“Absolutely.” I find his eyes again in the mirror, showing him my conviction.

I hear the shutter sounds as he snaps pictures, but I don’t take my eyes off him, hardly believing that whatever age difference between us once meant so much to me. It means nothing. Any other man young or old would likely have faltered at any time during or after this ordeal, but not Neil. He’s been steady and consistent from the start. I’m the one who’s been all over the place, who’s been irrational and unpredictable. Time to let him in all the way.

He’s put down the phone and is on his knees, taping a bag over my foot. “Join me?” I ask him and this time, he doesn’t ask if I’m sure. With his eyes locked on mine, he gets up and strips down where he stands. “Bring the phone,” I remind him as he helps me settle in the tub, my plastic-wrapped leg hanging over the side. He slides in behind me, keeping distance between his chest and my back, leaving it to me to make myself comfortable against him. The hair on his chest rubs slightly against the cuts on my back, just painful enough to remind me I’m alive, and I settle against him with a deep sigh. “I’m ready,” I tell him, indicating the phone he is holding in one hand, while the other settles around my waist on my stomach.

One-thumbed, he flicks over the screen until I see the image on my back. A deep outline of wings in my skin with an intricate network of cuts and slices, making up what look to be the feathers. He made it all the way up the left side of my back, from the top of my butt cheek almost to my shoulder blade. I wince remembering the fiery pain each of these cuts caused. It’s brutally beautiful and shocking at the same time. My skin—my body—permanently altered. And I realize that, at some point in time, when I can get my head around it, I will have to take that back too.

“Are you okay?” Neil puts the phone down on the toilet lid and wraps his other arm around me.

“No,” I tell him honestly. “But I’m starting to think maybe I will be.”

N
eil

Maybe I will be.

Kendra’s skin against mine, her body wrapped in my arms, her scent in my nostrils and those words from her lips, and all is right in the world. I’d like to freeze this moment and bring it back from time to time to savor.

“I’m sorry.”

Last thing I expected was to hear those words from her and my body seizes up. “What do you have to be sorry for?” I ask her, an edge to my voice I can’t disguise. “It’s me who should be sorry for leaving you. I should never have left you. Never.”

Kendra twists sideways, so both legs are now over the side of the tub, and she tilts her head back to look at me. Cupping my face in her hand she slowly shakes her head. “No. You’re wrong. I would never have forgiven you if you hadn’t gone after my sister. It’s what I wanted—what I
needed
from you. I’m saying I’m sorry I scared you. That I hurt you by leaving, but I had no choice; he had Karly. I would do it again, even knowing what was waiting for me. I wouldn’t hesitate for a second. Crazy, right?”

Now it’s my turn to shake my head. “No. Not crazy at all.” I bend down and lightly touch my lips to hers. She tucks her head in my neck and leans her body against me. And then she speaks.

“I was so scared. Felt so helpless. He told me to get into the truck bed, and for a minute, I thought that maybe I could do something from there. I was looking for weapons, for anything, but all I could find was a large wood sliver.” A shiver runs through her body before she lifts her head. “I stabbed him with it, you know?”

I drop my head so our foreheads touch. “Good for you,” I say quietly. Knowing from what Damian has told me that Maryn/Cayman had a large open gash in his cheek, and they’d found the bloodied piece of wood on the side of the trail. Karly had apparently been witness to most of that encounter. That is, until her sister yelled at her to run. I don’t know what Kendra thought my reaction would be, but it’s obviously not what she expected to hear. That’s why when she looks at me slightly confused, I lay it out for her. “You were saving Karly. Even when you were hurt yourself, you took care of her first. You weren’t helpless. You were courageous and incredibly brave to do what you did. So baby,
good for you.”
I emphasize my words with a light press of my lips against hers.

“The pain was so bad, Neil. I’ve never felt anything like it.” She snuggles back under my chin and I have to make a concerted effort to keep my breathing regular, even though the rage I feel at what he did to her is almost blinding. “The guilt and the pain, his constant chanting, it was getting to me. I could feel myself slipping away and kept hoping it would be the last time. That I wouldn’t wake up again. I’m so sorry.” I can feel her soft sobs against my chest and they about rip my heart out. Still, I can’t say the trust she is showing me right now doesn’t feel pretty fucking good.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” I reassure her. Guilt has no place in the emotions she’s living through.

“He called me his angel. Told me I was his masterpiece, his ultimate test. I didn’t understand any of what he was saying. He even said something about going to a
sun dance
. None of it made sense to me. I never saw his face, but he was familiar.”

I know I won’t be able to keep it from her much longer and perhaps while having her relaxed in my arms would be a good time. “Probably because he was familiar to you,” I say hesitantly, and she immediately lifts her head, her eyes searching mine. “Babe, it’s been Lars Cayman all along and the only reason he focused on you is because, according to Gomez, you bear an uncanny similarity to his mother.” Her body goes stiff in my arms and I quickly tell her what I just recently learned about the man, hoping that it may help her realize that his obsession with her was something entirely out of her control.

“I noticed this time,” she cryptically states.

“What?”

“His gait. I could hear the uneven steps on the dirt every time he’d walk toward me. I started focussing on it. That’s what must have made him seem familiar because it sure as hell wasn’t his voice. From what I remember he had a much higher-pitched voice. This guy’s voice was very deep and gravelly. They don’t even sound alike, but his odd gait was familiar.”

“Given what we know about him now, it’s clear he lived two completely separate lives, one as Lars Cayman, respectable high school teacher, and the other as reclusive artist Casal Maryn. Same person but two apparently different personalities. Gomez never felt good about having to let the guy go after interviewing him in Gallup. He always had suspicions, but we were likely dealing with two separate personalities. His appearance, especially his limp, was not so easy to hide.”