Into the Fire (18 page)

“There's no spare tire in the trunk,” she said, forestalling him. “I had a flat last week and I forgot to pick up a new one.”

“I'm not looking for a spare,” he said in a dull voice. And he opened the trunk, staring down into it in silence.

She dropped the towel, grabbed the sweatshirt he'd brought and pulled it over her head. She started toward the car, and he spun around, shielding it.

“Don't come any closer, Jamie!”

His voice was raw with grief and rage, and there was no way she was going to obey him. She tried to push past him, but he caught her arms in an iron grip and dragged her away, hurting her. But not before she could see what lay in the trunk of her car.

He dragged her across the garage to the yellow Cadillac, and she started to struggle. He ignored her
flailing, wrapping his arms tight around her, ignoring her grunt of pain as he pressed against the wounds on her chest. He picked her up and dumped her in the front seat of the car. Behind the steering wheel. He leaned over and started the car, and she sat still, staring up at him.

“This puts the top up,” he said in a monotone. “The rest of it is pretty standard. It has a full tank of gas and snow tires, though it gets lousy mileage. You need to get out of here, right away.”

“Who was that…?”

“In your trunk? Mouser. Or what's left of him.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and she could see the pain wash over him. And then he focused on her again, all business. “Where's your purse?”

“I don't remember.”

He reached into his back pocket and tossed his wallet into her lap. “There are credit cards and plenty of cash. Enough to get you back to Rhode Island. Just dump the car somewhere—I don't need it anymore. It's served it's purpose.”

“But what about my car?”

“It's going to disappear. Mouser has no one, and he wouldn't want ugly questions surfacing that no one can answer.”

The Cadillac was purring like the perfectly main
tained machine it was. As it had twelve years ago. “Did you murder him?”

She'd been frightened of him before, but in comparison to this it had been no more than a mild nervousness. The look he turned on her would have frozen anyone.

“I've never hit a woman,” he said in a contemplative voice. “I'm more than willing to start with you. Get the fuck out of here and don't come back.”

“I don't have any shoes.”

“What?”

“I can't drive off into a snowstorm in bare feet.”

His reply was short and obscene. “Put the fucking top up.” A moment later he threw a pair of his own sneakers into the open window.

“These won't fit—”

“Shut the fuck up and get out of here before it's too late.”

There was nothing left to say. Except the obvious. “Then who killed Mouser? Who tried to kill me?”

“You're smarter than that, Jamie. You should have figured it out by now.”

“Well, I haven't. I don't have the faintest idea what's going on. Enlighten me.”

“Looks like your dreams might come true, after
all, baby girl,” he said bitterly. “Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe your darling cousin Nate isn't dead. But if you don't get out of here, you will be. I can't protect you, Jamie. Stay here and die, or run like hell.”

He spun around, went over to the huge garage door and opened it. She backed the car around, heading it toward the open door and the snowy morning. The heat had come on, pouring down on her bare feet, and she pushed her hair out of her face. Her face that was wet with tears she hadn't even realized she'd cried.

She wouldn't see him again, she knew it. She needed to put the car in Drive and get the hell out of there.

She didn't move. He came back to the car, still wearing the T-shirt stained with her blood. He leaned in the window of the car, put his hand behind her neck and kissed her, a hard, desperate kiss that lasted an eternity and only a moment. And then he drew back.

“Get out of here, Jamie. And don't ever come back.”

And putting the car into Drive, she tore out of the garage, onto the empty, snow-covered streets.

D
illon stood in the open garage door, watching until the taillights of the old Cadillac disappeared into the snowy morning. And then he closed the doors and locked them. Locked himself in with the dead body of his best friend. With the murderous ghost of his oldest friend.

Except that he didn't believe in ghosts. Not in ghosts that could use a knife, the way someone had used a knife on Mouser. He recognized Nate's signature—Mouser wasn't the first person Nate had killed. Though from what little Dillon had discovered, he preferred to hurt women.

He reached for his cigarettes, and he noticed his hands were shaking. He figured he had two choices. One was to call the police and try to convince them that he, a convicted felon, had nothing to do with the dead body in his garage. The second dead body in the last three months. For some reason he didn't think Lieutenant MacPherson was going to be listening, no matter how reasonable he'd seemed. And
they certainly wouldn't take his word for it that Mouser had been killed by a dead man.

Even more important, they'd drag Jamie back to Wisconsin. It was her car, it would be covered in her fingerprints. Maybe they'd be satisfied with someone taking a long-distance deposition. After all, an upper-class innocent like Jamie wasn't the type to kill a stranger.

But he couldn't take the chance. He'd be fine if he could just be certain he never had to see her again. She made him crazy, mean and stupid and out of his mind, and he couldn't afford to let that happen. He'd accepted the fact long ago—she wasn't for him. The fact that he'd had her, in just about every possible way, for the last two days was a boon he'd never expected. And didn't dare try to repeat.

He patted his pockets, looking for his lighter, but it wasn't anywhere. Must have fallen out of his pocket in the sofa. When he'd slept with his arms around Jamie.

He hadn't slept much. Hadn't allowed himself to. There was something dangerous, evil in the old building, and he didn't dare relax his guard.

And if he was going to be honest with himself, he had to admit that he wanted to watch her. Feel
her slow, steady heartbeat against his chest. Listen to the soft sound of her breathing.

He'd left the trunk open, too busy keeping Jamie away to worry about it. He reached up to close the lid, looking down at what was left of Mouser.

“Sorry, old friend,” he said softly. “I should have known what was going on. I should have warned you.”

But Mouser wasn't going to be answering. There was nothing Dillon could do for him at this point, and he was damned if he was going to cry. He hadn't cried since he was eight years old and his mother had left him with his drunken old man. He certainly wasn't going to start now.

He started to put the cigarettes back in his pocket, then stared down at the crumpled pack. Mouser was always lecturing him about his smoking, telling him it was going to kill him. But it was Mouser who was dead, wasn't it?

“Here, buddy,” he said, tossing the pack of cigarettes into the trunk. “It's the least I can do for you.”

It was only a little past dawn when he drove Jamie's car out of the garage, into the empty streets. He stopped and closed the doors behind him—there was still a pool of dried blood where the car had sat, and he didn't want anyone wandering in and
seeing it until he had a chance to do something about it. He drove silently, grimly, through the growing light, needing a cigarette. At least it was a distraction—he could think about how much he was craving nicotine. It was a small pain compared to everything else, but it was a piece of suffering he could offer up to the angry gods who seemed determined to screw him over. Him, and everyone he'd ever cared about.

Wisconsin was a damned flat state, but there was Tucker's Ravine, right on the edge of the county line. The scar in the land ran deep and narrow, and the trees and shrubs were a jungle in the summer. If he aimed the car just right it would disappear into that crevasse and not be found for decades. They wouldn't be able to identify Mouser—he had no family, no record. Dillon didn't even know his real name. Fingerprints would be long gone, and hell, maybe the wreck would never be found. He was counting on it.

He drove to the very edge of the bluff, climbed out and stepped back. It wouldn't take much to send it over the edge, and he'd been thoughtful enough to fill the gas tank when he thought Jamie was going to drive away in it.

He walked around to the back of the sedan and began to push. There was a slight rise up to the very
edge of the ravine, and the Volvo was a heavy mother. It finally began to move, and he felt the front wheels drop over the side.

He knocked on the trunk, a useless gesture of affection and farewell, as the car disappeared over the edge.

He watched it go, turning end over end, disappearing into the deep scar in the land, the noise muffled by the snow and the trees. The final explosion came from far away, and the flames were barely visible from the top of the bluff. He stood and watched until the fire died down, and there was nothing more than a faint plume of smoke.

It was snowing harder now. His hair was wet, as were his shoulders and his feet. He hadn't bothered to change into boots, and his sneakers weren't the best choice for deep, drifting snow. He didn't give a shit. He wanted a cigarette, he wanted Mouser to be alive, he wanted Jamie. And he wasn't going to get any of those things.

The six-mile hike back to the garage was physically miserable. The snow was a mixed blessing. It would cover up all trace of the Volvo's descent into the ravine, and it kept people off the road who might see him. He only had to dive off the side of the road twice as cars passed. He didn't expect any
one to find Mouser, but it was never a mistake to be careful.

The snow wasn't going to be a treat for Jamie, though. The tires on the Caddie were good, and she was used to driving a rear-wheel-drive car, but there was a big difference between a full-size American car and a compact Volvo. And she wouldn't be in the most stable state of mind. She'd just seen her first dead man, and she probably thought he'd killed him.

He didn't give a shit what she thought. As long as she was gone, she was safe. And when it came right down to it, that was all that mattered.

It was late morning when he finally made it back to the garage. He was shivering—the snow had soaked through his sneakers, his shirt, plastered his hair against his head. He'd shoved his hands in his jeans pocket to keep them warm, but it hadn't done much good. He closed the door behind him, leaning against it as he stared at his deserted kitchen.

He'd stretched Jamie across that table and almost had her. He'd played cards with Mouser, laughed and joked with him over the years. He'd sat at the table, smoking cigarette after cigarette as he listened to the muffled sounds of Nate being beaten to death.

He crossed the room and heaved the heavy oak table over, sending coffee cups and plates smashing
to the ground. He splintered one chair against the hard surface of the overturned table—the next one took more effort before it shattered into pieces. He went through the room, methodically smashing everything he could lay his hands on—the microwave, the dishes, the food. He even managed to tip the refrigerator over so that it crashed open onto the floor, the door snapping off as food and milk spread over the littered floor.

He stood in the middle of the chaos, trying to catch his breath. It should have made him feel better—destruction should have wiped his emotions clean. Instead the fury bubbled inside.

He could go into the garage, take a tire iron to the stable of old beauties. But he wouldn't do that. He'd already managed to hurt and destroy the people he cared about. He didn't need to smash the only material things he cared about, as well. He'd done enough for one day.

He stepped over the debris, heading into the garage for the small comfort the logical workings of a car could provide. But all he saw was the sofa where he'd slept with Jamie, their covers still intertwined. The pool of dried blood where her car had sat, holding its terrible secret.

Then he saw the word, written in blood on the cement floor. It had been hidden by the car, and he
wondered when Nate had done it. Probably some time when he'd been upstairs screwing his brains out.

Dungeon
. It was Nate's name for his childhood home, the one that had been destroyed in the fire that had killed his parents. The real name was Dungeness Towers, named by Nate's great-grandfather, a Scottish immigrant who'd amassed a fortune in shipping and built a monument to his own importance. The last time Dillon had seen it, there hadn't been much left but two of the towers and the carriage house that had once served as a small-scale chophouse for stolen cars and a drug center. Dillon had taken care of the cars—Nate had found people to steal them, Dillon had stripped them down and turned them out again in record time. He was young and in love with danger—he wanted to be the one to boost the cars, as well, but Nate's cool head had prevailed.

He hadn't been particularly interested in Nate's sideline of dealing drugs. He'd dealt weed and a few other things through high school, but Nate was getting into more dangerous stuff, and Dillon had lost his taste for it. Rebuilding stolen cars was enough excitement for him at the time.

They'd both called it the Dungeon. Nate had al
ways said when he died he'd go back and haunt the old place.

Dillon closed his eyes and remembered the sight of Jamie's scraped torso. He'd rather think about her breasts, but the marks were more important. Fortunately she hadn't seen what was scratched into her skin. “Whore.” “Traitor.” “Dungeon.”

Another message, meant for no one but Dillon. Who else would be looking at Jamie's bare chest?

He was going to have to go after him, sooner or later. It was a summons, an invitation, a dare. From a dead man, who knew that Dillon had betrayed him to his enemies and done nothing to save him.

And if he didn't go, then the ghost of Nate Kincaid would keep going after Jamie.

It was a confrontation long overdue. They'd both been selfish, self-destructive monsters when they were teenagers. But Dillon had grown up, learned a little about what was important.

Nate had stayed a dangerous little boy, out for revenge and anything else that took his fancy, no matter what the cost.

He had no choice. Maybe he could live alone here with Nate's ghost haunting him, leaving dead rats as a token of affection.

But he'd lost Mouser, and if he didn't do something, Jamie would be the next to go.

He didn't believe in ghosts, not really. Which left only one possibility. That Nate was alive, someone else had died, beaten and blood-splattered in that upstairs room. And if Dillon didn't do something about it, more death would follow.

He'd go after him, in his own sweet time. For now, Jamie was gone, safe, and there was really nothing Nate could do to hurt him. At least for the moment. The smartest thing to do was not to fall into his trap. To stay put at the garage and wait for his ghost to continue haunting him.

Because he would. He'd keep on, inexorable. Until Nate got what he wanted.

Dillon.

 

Jamie drove blindly, concentrating on the snowy roads and the poor visibility. The interstate system was better once she reached it, and the heavy morning traffic managed to snag the one part of her brain that was holding on to Dillon. Killer. Who had killed Mouser?

It couldn't be Dillon. Please God, it couldn't be Dillon.

She stopped for breakfast at McDonald's, almost taking off part of the drive-through as she tried to navigate the huge car. The Egg McMuffin didn't sit well in the pit of her stomach, but the coffee was
warm and full of caffeine, giving her enough energy for another two hours. She was almost at the Indiana border, she had to pee and the car was running on empty. She pulled into a gas station and reached for the wallet Dillon had dumped in her lap.

Credit cards. Who would have thought a bad boy like Dillon Gaynor would end up with credit cards? She pulled out the gas one and paid at the pump, watching with horror as the Caddy sucked up thirty dollars' worth of fuel.

Fortunately the bathroom was inside the minimart and reasonably clean. As she washed her hands she stared at her reflection in the mirror.

She looked like holy hell. Like a ghost. Or someone who'd seen one.

Slowly, carefully, she peeled Dillon's sweatshirt over her head to get her first good look at her chest.

It was little wonder it had felt like fire. The tracings across her pale skin were red and angry, though the bleeding had stopped. It could have been worse, she thought. Whoever had done this to her hadn't gone near her breasts. He'd cut and scratched every part of her chest but her small breasts, and she couldn't help but feel that was deliberate. That whoever had done this to her didn't want to touch her breasts. Didn't want to touch anything about her that made her a woman.

She had no idea where that thought came from, but it was clear and solid. And then she peered closer at the marks.

There were letters, words there. She couldn't read them in the mirror—they were both scrawled and backward. She squinted, trying to mentally reverse them. The first one was easy enough.
Whore
was a simple word, though it had to be the first time in her sheltered life she'd been called that. It almost felt like a badge of honor, when she thought she was going to die frigid and untouched. At least she got one thing out of her sojourn in Wisconsin. She most definitely wasn't frigid. Nor was there any part of her that was untouched.