I'm Watching You (8 page)

She nodded. "Oh, don't worry about that. I won't talk
location. None of the news stations are." She slid manicured hands into
her pocket and pulled out a slim notebook. "But I was hoping you could
tell me more about what went on here this morning. The cops' public
relations guy said Harold Turner was killed here but won't say much else.
Any thoughts why?"

That was the million-dollar question. "I don't know anything
else. I'm just as much in the dark as you are."

Kendall didn't look convinced. "Oh, come on, you must have
an idea." She'd dropped her voice as if they were somehow
coconspirators. "Detective Kier was in your office for over a half hour.
And he was very tight-lipped when I tried to talk to him. He must have told you
something."

Zack hated the press. He never spoke to them unless he absolutely had
to. "I really don't know anything, Kendall."

"I thought he was your husband?"

Lindsay didn't ask Kendall how she'd found out about her marriage.
No doubt she'd done extra digging while working on the article. "I
can't add anything." She inched past Kendall up the stairs toward
the door.

Kendall followed. "Harold's death didn't have anything
to do with the Pam Rogers case?"

Tension snaked up Lindsay's back as she reached for the doorknob.
She'd never considered the two could be linked. But Kendall thought more
like a cop.

"Kendall, I'd help you out if I could."
Another lie.
"But I don't know anything."

Kendall's smile was smooth as she laid her hand on the front rail.
"Oh, come on, you must know something that you can share with me. I mean,
I figure you owe me."

Lindsay dropped her hand from the doorknob and faced the reporter.
Whatever goodwill she'd felt toward Kendall had vanished. "You want
to run that one by me again?"

Kendall didn't look intimidated. "You were quite the
'it' girl there for a few weeks after the article came out.
I'd heard that donations to the shelter had soared."

Donations had risen for a while but that didn't mean Lindsay liked
being pushed. "Right now I can't say a word."

Kendall's eyes hardened but she maintained her trademark smile.
"But when you can you'll give me a call."

"Don't count on it." Lindsay escaped inside the
shelter but the well-being she'd felt on the drive back had evaporated.
Kendall Shaw's questions had set her teeth on edge and reminded her that
no matter how hard she worked on the pending grant applications, the specter of
another shelter-related murder could shut her down permanently.

Lindsay headed to her office. Carefully, she laid the butterfly in the
center of her desk as she studied a long white flower box sitting on her chair.
It was wrapped with a thick red ribbon. There was a card on the box. It read,
"For Lindsay."

No one ever sent her flowers.

"Hey, Ruby," she shouted, "what's with the
flowers?"

"They just came." Ruby rounded the corner, a big grin on her
face. "They're for you."

"Do you know who sent them?" Had Zack remembered her
birthday? Could he have sent the flowers?

Ruby grinned. "Open the card and find out."

Tenderly, she touched the ribbon that seemed to have been wrapped with
care. "There must be some kind of mistake. I've never gotten
flowers." The truth was she didn't like flowers, because her father
always gave her mother flowers after he hit her.

Ruby shrugged. "No mistake. And if you've never gotten
flowers, it's high time you did."

Her curiosity rising, Lindsay opened the card. "
Lindsay, you are not alone anymore.
The
Guardian."

Ruby came around behind Lindsay and glanced over her shoulder and read
the note. "'Lindsay, you are not alone anymore.' What does
that mean? And who is the Guardian?"

Lindsay also was puzzled. "I've no idea."

Ruby cocked an eyebrow. "I hate it when men play games. There a
name?"

"No."

"There's no man in your life?"

"No."

"What about your husband?"

"He knows I don't like flowers. Besides, romantic gestures
aren't his thing."

Curious, Lindsay untied the crisp bow. She laid it carefully aside
before opening the lid to reveal purple irises. They'd been one of her
mother's favorite flowers and, consequently, she loved them as well.
"They're beautiful."

Ruby leaned over her shoulder, admiring the bouquet. "Maybe
it's from that doctor."

"I bet you're right. I saw Sam this morning. He knows I was
having a rough day and he's one of the few who knows where the shelter is
located."

Sadness coiled inside her chest. It was foolish to want or expect
anything from Zack. But for a brief moment she had. "I think we have a
vase or a large jar in the kitchen."

"I think it's under the sink. I'll be right back with
it." Ruby disappeared down the hallway.

Lindsay lifted the flowers out of the box. As she raised the blooms to
her nose she saw a bundle wrapped in green tissue paper. She laid the flowers
aside on her desk and opened the second package.

Bile rose in her throat. For a moment she thought she'd throw up
as she dropped it and backed away from her desk.

Cradled in the tissue and wrapped in a zip-top bag was a severed hand.

No one noticed delivery people. Some might glance at the name
Joe
embroidered over a breast pocket, but few would gaze
under the bill of a hat or look beyond a nondescript magnetic florist sign
stuck on a van.

That was the problem with people, the Guardian thought. They were
selfish and far too wrapped up in their own lives to notice what didn't
directly concern them.

That's why it was easy to feel safe moving past the unmarked
police car and the cop now distracted by a well-timed cell phone call from his
kid's day care.

And the Guardian smiled at the ambitious reporter as she tamed a strand
of hair and practiced smiling as her cameraman began taping her intro for the
six o'clock news report.

Like everyone else, the cop and reporter were blind.
Blind
to the delivery.
Blind to the pain and suffering
around them.
Blind to everything but their needs.

The only one who could truly see was Lindsay.

She reached out to others in need. She put the lives of others in front
of her own.

The Guardian closed the door to the van and started the engine and
pulled out. She would get the flowers soon. Soon she would know she
wasn't alone.
"Happy birthday, Lindsay."

Tightening fingers on the steering wheel, the Guardian slowed at an
intersection when the light turned yellow. The car in the left lane darted
through a red light and he frowned.

"No respect."

Today had been a good day.

The rains had purified the killing ground and signaled the beginning of
a long overdue holy cause.

Together, Lindsay and her Guardian would destroy The Evil Ones.

Monday, July 7, 2:59
P.M
.

Richard pinned Christina's
hands down over her head as his heavy body pressed her into the mattress. She
could feel his erection pressing against her skin and knew what would come
next. His breath smelled of stale cigars and whiskey. She felt dirty and so
unclean when he touched her.

She didn't want his idea of lovemaking.
She didn't want him.

But she was careful to hide her revulsion and
fear. The last time she'd tried to resist him, he'd slapped her
hard across the face, and after he'd raped her he'd locked her in a
dark closet all night long.

Richard thrust inside her, using as much force
as he could.

She couldn't suppress a wince.

He smiled and pushed into her again and again
until tears spilled down her cheeks and stained the silk pillow under her head.

He slipped his hands under her buttocks and
gripped hard. He was enjoying her suffering.

"You love this, don't you?"
he whispered against her ear.

Christina swallowed. She couldn't bring
herself to respond.

He straightened and slapped her hard against
the face. "Say you love this."

She tasted blood. "I do."

Richard smiled, satisfied. He cupped her full
breasts with his large hands. "I want us to have a child, Christina. I
want a child to bind us together forever."

Fear burned inside her. She begged God not to
give her a child.

How had her life gotten so messed up? How had
she slid from independence to this?

He moved inside of her, faster and faster. He
fisted his fingers in her long dark hair and pressed his cheek to hers. His
beard scratched her skin. His breath was hot against her face. Sweat dripped
from his body.

"Say you love me," Richard
commanded.

She didn't speak. Saying the words always
made her ill.

"Say it!" he urged. He tightened
his hold on her hair and pulled until sections started to come out.

Pain seared Christina's scalp. She
started to weep again. "I love you."

He grunted, satisfied. Even in his own twisted
way, he needed assurances. He released her hair and kissed her lips. "I
love you, Christina. We'll be together forever. Until death do us
part.
"

The words were heartfelt. He did love her. And
at one time she had loved him.

Richard found his release. He collapsed on top
of her, his body damp with sweat. Tenderly he stroked her hair.

"We are destined to be together
forever."

Nicole Piper awoke with a start. Her mind was still clouded by the dream
and for a moment she was confused and afraid.

She didn't know where she was as she swung her legs over the side
of the overstuffed couch. A book that had been in her lap fell to the floor.
Sweat dampened her brow. Her heart raced.

Drawn window shades bathed the room in near darkness and added to her
disorientation. Overwhelmed by the sensation that she wasn't alone, she
frantically searched the living room's shadowed corners for any sign of
her husband, Richard.

A chill prickled her skin. "Who's
there!
"

No one answered.

"Richard, are you there?"

Still nothing.
And yet the feeling that someone watched
lingered.

Seconds passed. No phantoms appeared. Her heart slowed.

Nicole's mind cleared. "He's far away, three thousand
miles away. Richard is in San Francisco. Christina is dead. I'm Nicole
now." She was in Virginia and living with her friend Lindsay
O'Neil.

"I'm safe. It was a dream." Nicole switched on the
lamp by the faded floral couch. As she hugged a colorful pillow, her gaze
traveled over the living room's hodgepodge of antique and modern
furniture. An assortment of clocks ticked and chimed on the mantle. A large
area rug warmed the scuffed parquet floor. The room should have looked
disjointed, but Lindsay had united the salvaged pieces and given them a new
life and purpose.

She'd done the same for Nicole.

Without question, Lindsay had taken in Nicole when she'd fled her
abusive marriage. She'd given her safe harbor and was helping her to
regain control of her life.

Nicole curled trembling hands into fists and said aloud, "He
can't find me. I've covered my tracks well. I'm safe."
But the helpless fear still remained.

A clock chimed four times. Other clocks joined in, creating a symphony
of sounds. Four o'clock.

It was time to get ready for her evening shift at the studio.

Just a week ago, Nicole had told Lindsay she had to get back to work.
Lindsay had tried to convince her to just hang out for a while and give herself
time to heal, but Nicole had refused. She needed to work so that she could push
the past from her mind. Lindsay had understood and had gotten Nicole a new
Social Security number. Nicole wasn't sure how Lindsay had accomplished
the feat so quickly but she hadn't asked.

Within two days, Nicole had gotten a job at a mall portrait studio.
She'd only been on the job about a week and knew that snapping photos of
babies and high school graduates was a far cry from the artistic photography
she'd done in San Francisco. But right now she didn't have the
luxury of being a snob. This job was about making money, which equaled the
means to run if Richard found her.

Nicole moved through the dimly lit apartment to the kitchen and got a
soda from the fridge. She popped it open and savored the cool liquid on her dry
throat and uneasy stomach.

She was afraid all the time and that made her angry with herself.
She'd been a fool to love Richard, a man who had ruined her life.

Richard.

He'd been the man of her dreams and she'd loved him so much
in the early days. But behind the kindness and flowers lurked a man who was
evil incarnate.

Two years ago when he'd burst through the front door of her San
Francisco photography studio, he'd been dodging an onslaught of rain.
Dressed in jeans, a white linen shirt, and Gucci loafers, he had immediately
captured her attention with his dark good looks. They'd hit it off.
He'd been so charming. She'd been enthralled. They'd married
less than two months later in a sunset ceremony on the beach. Her parents had
passed away by then but she'd had a collection of friends to stand by her
side. She'd worn a silk halter dress that had shimmered in the light of a
hundred torches. Flowers had adorned her head. She'd worn no shoes.

Richard had held her hand as they'd stood before the minister. His
hand had been cold and she knew he was nervous. She'd been charmed that
such a sophisticated man could be nervous. He'd sworn that they'd
be together forever.

Forever.

The word haunted her now.

They'd been married less than six months when the problems
started. She'd been late coming home one night because she'd spent
extra time in the darkroom, burning and edging the print of a mother and child
until it was perfect. When she'd left the studio, she'd felt so
proud of the work. She was finding her voice as an artist. And commercially,
she was on the brink of something big in her career.

When she'd arrived home, Richard had accused her of seeing someone
else. The idea was so ridiculous, she'd laughed. His temper had snapped.
He'd called her a whore.
A cunt.
He'd said
he despised the sight of her.

The words had cut through her like knives. She'd started to cry.

Instantly contrite, Richard had begged for her forgiveness and poured
her a snifter of brandy to settle her nerves. He'd sworn he'd never
lose his temper again.

Stunned and shaken, she'd allowed him to hug her. And God help
her, she'd clung to him.

Each day for the next month, he'd sent her flowers: large and
lavish displays of roses, tulips, rare orchids. Slowly, she'd dropped her
guard. She'd believed his words of love.

But as her success grew so did Richard's resentment. He
didn't like the demands her work made on her time. And like a fool,
she'd confused his need to control with love. And so she had tried to
appease him. She'd downplayed her successes and awards. And when that
didn't work, she'd cut back her hours.
Seen her
friends less so she could be with him more.
Each time she gave up a
piece of herself, he seemed to be mollified. But he was never content for long.
She realized she could never sacrifice enough to make him truly happy.

Nicole began to despise her marriage. Increasingly, she'd felt
trapped.
Angry.
Alone.
She'd even gone to a local community center to hear a woman, Claire
Carmichael, speak about abuse. But at the time, Nicole just couldn't
believe that her marriage was that bad.

Then, almost three weeks ago, Richard had lost his temper because
he'd not liked the dress she'd chosen. It had looked cheap to him
and in his eyes a poor reflection of his standing.

She'd tried to explain it was the latest fashion. But she had been
silenced by the anger and venom that had erupted from him. He'd beaten
her so badly that she couldn't leave the house for days. He'd told
her if she ever tried to leave him, he'd kill her. With great relish,
he'd spoken of drugs that could keep her alive for days as he'd
slice away at her flesh with a knife.

She'd been terrified, knowing he would do exactly what he'd
threatened to do.

Confident that he'd totally trampled her spirits, he'd given
her a lavish display of roses and then left their San Francisco home for an
overnight business trip to New York.

Nicole had known, as she'd stared at the roses, that if she
didn't get out, he would eventually beat her to death. The next flowers
she'd receive would be placed on her grave.

Her body still aching, she'd packed what clothes could fit in a
large purse. She couldn't leave their home without his driver, Jimmy, who
was always there watching. Donning dark sunglasses, she had asked Jimmy to take
her across town and drop her near the waterfront. She had vanished into a
restaurant bathroom and climbed out the window.

Near the restaurant was Claire Carmichael's small New Age
bookstore. She'd raced to Claire's and told her she needed to be
hidden. Claire had remembered her and offered her a bed at the local shelter.
Nicole had known she had to get farther away from San Francisco than a local
shelter. So, Claire had given Nicole $200 cash and the keys to a beat-up Honda.
In gratitude, she had given Claire her wedding bands and told her to hawk them.

Grateful and terrified, she'd headed east, not sure at first where
she was going. In Denver, she had bought a hat and tucked her hair up inside
it. She also had calmed enough to sit and think where she'd go next. She
had remembered Lindsay. They had been roommates at the University of Southern California
but had lost touch over the years. Nicole had remembered a notation in the USC
alumni magazine. Lindsay had returned to her native Virginia. She worked with
battered women.

So, Nicole had called information from a pay phone and gotten the number
of the abuse hotline in Lindsay's area. She'd begged the counselor
to find Lindsay and have her call Nicole at the pay phone. The counselor
hadn't made any promises, but five minutes later the pay phone had rung.
It was Lindsay.

Lindsay hadn't hesitated. She'd given Nicole directions to
her house, and when she'd arrived two days later, Lindsay had opened up
her home to Nicole.

Sunlight peeked around the edges of the shaded kitchen window. Nicole
set her soda can on the counter and opened the blinds. Afternoon light made her
squint, but the sun warmed her face. The rain had stopped.

Men like Richard didn't have the right to walk this earth. They
stole dreams and lives. They nurtured humiliation and fear. They all deserved
to die.

Somewhere along the way, she'd lost herself. But she'd
corrected the mistake. She was in control now.

San Francisco, 1:00
P.M
. PST (4:00
P.M
. EST)

Jimmy Quinn had endured a lot of pain during his career in the boxing
ring, weathering split lips, broken bones, and bruised knots the size of goose
eggs. Long after a damaged right hand had forced him from the ring, the boys on
the street respectfully called him Iron Jim, because he could take a licking
better than anyone. He was the toughest of the tough.

However, never during his sixty-four years had he ever,
ever
, hurt so bad that he wanted to die.

Now, the pain ravaging his body made him wish he were dead.