Kill Me Again (3 page)

She stood very still for a long moment, and he watched her absorb that piece of information. Her only reaction was to close her eyes slowly, leave them that way for a few ticks and then open them just as slowly. “Some professional,” she said, moving again to close the closet door. “Seeing as you're still alive.”

“Yeah, clearly he wasn't Einstein, but a steel plate in the skull isn't something most people would even think of. Still, even an amateur would know enough to verify the kill.” He smiled grimly.

“That was a mistake, but he won't make another.” He looked at her, saw her looking at him as if for the first time. “What?” he asked. “Are you not getting it? The minute this guy figures out I'm in the hospital, he'll be coming by to finish the job.”

“I thought of that already.”

She had? He went stone silent.

“I asked Bryan—Officer Kendall—to try to keep this out of the press for now, and he agreed it was for the best. No word of a gunshot victim being found and taken to the hospital will appear in the local newspapers. I guarantee it. The hospital staff are cooperating, too.”

He blinked at her, surprised she would have come up with that strategy on her own. “Thank you for that,” he said.

She nodded. “You're welcome.”

“Even so,” he continued, “it won't stay a secret for long. People talk. The boys will say something. Wives will tell their husbands. Husbands will tell their best pals. Those best pals will tell
their
wives, and so on.”

“It'll only have to hold for a day or two,” she said. The odd way she'd been looking at him before—like a wary doe eyeing an armed hunter—had faded. “Bryan's going to contact your publisher to see if someone there can identify you, or if they know of someone who can. From there, we should be able to find out where you live, who your relatives are, all the things you must be so eager to learn. As frustrating as I know this must be, it won't take long to fill in the gaps. In the meantime, there's no reason to let the killer know he didn't succeed.”

Did she know how much better she was making him feel? he wondered. To think he would have all the answers in a day or two…

“But…the shooter probably expects to see something in the papers about a
body
being found. That would be big news in a town this size, wouldn't it?”

She frowned at him. “How did you know Shadow Falls was a small town, not a city?”

He stopped short and wondered about that. “I don't know. Bits of conversations pinned together, combined with the view outside my window, I guess.”

“Or because it's something you knew before, and the knowledge is still there, in your memory, right where you left it. I think it's a good sign, Aaron.”

He felt his worry lighten just a little. “I hope you're right.”

She nodded. “I'm sure I am. But to answer your question, you were found along a back road that leads through a state forest. It's dirt, not pavement, not even gravel. Just dirt, and hardly ever traveled. It's near one of the spots where the high school kids go to party and underage couples go to have sex, when they aren't out at the old abandoned Campbell farm or the vacant cheese factory. It's perfectly believable that a body dumped out there might not be found for a few days.”

He frowned and looked her up and down yet again, taking in her pencil skirt, silky blouse and tightly wound hair. “You say you're an
English teacher?
”

“Why do you ask it like that?”

“Because you think like a cop. Or a criminal.”

She looked away so quickly that he knew she had something to hide. Some deep, dark secrets of her own. And all of a sudden he was almost as curious about her past as he was about his own hidden history.

There was something fascinating about Professor Olivia Dupree, but the shadows in her eyes told him it wouldn't be easy finding out what it was. He didn't really believe she was a criminal, much less in league with a hit man. But there was definitely
something
hiding behind those intelligent brown eyes.

She met his curious gaze and stared right back. The tension, the attraction—oh, yeah, the feelings were there, and they were real—built. Finally, she looked away. “There's a policeman guarding your room,” she told him. “That should reassure you.”

“Yeah, I just
love
cops,” he said, and he made his words as sarcastic as possible. “But having one outside the door is only going to make the gossip mill grind a little faster, isn't it?”

She nodded and licked her lips, the motion of her tongue, quick and slight though it was, grabbing him by the testosterone and not letting go.

“I'll phone Bryan,” she said. “I can ask him to send a plainclothes officer instead. You're right, the uniform raises too many questions.”

“A plainclothes cop will be just as obvious.”

“To you and me, maybe. But not to anyone else.” She moved closer to the bed, leaned over him just a little, and her face softened. “You really do need to spend the night, Aaron. Dr. Overton wants to be sure she hasn't missed anything, and you know how tricky head injuries can be. Your brain could swell later on and you could be dead—” she snapped her fingers “—just like that.”

“Did you just come in, or did you somehow miss that I already could have been dead—” he snapped his fingers “—just like that? I don't like being in this hospital. I'm a sitting duck here.”

“I don't think you have a choice.”

“You don't know me very well, then.”

She thinned her lips, looked at him steadily. “I think it would be a bad idea for you to leave, but you're an adult. You do what you want. I'm going to leave that card here.” She bent over it, picked up the nearby pen and scribbled something. “I put Bryan's numbers on it, too. But I'm closer—only fifteen minutes away. If you need anything, feel free to call me, okay?”

“You're going, then?” He almost tried to snatch the words back and wondered if he could have managed to sound any more like a disappointed four-year-old.

Her chocolate eyes melted. “I'm going out to talk to Dr. Overton. But I'll come in and say goodbye before I leave.”

“No need. You've told me all you know.”

She moved close to the bed again, and for a second he thought she was going to touch him, put a hand on his shoulder or brow or some sappy thing like that. And while he didn't think he would mind her putting her hands on him in the right circumstances, he definitely didn't want it like that.

She didn't, though. She said, “Aaron, your work has seen me through some…difficult times. It's probably been more important to me than you can imagine. And if I can return the favor by helping you now, then that's what I want to do. So if you need anything, call me. Okay?”

He frowned at her, finding this whole thing very strange. She was a
fan
. He had a
fan
. Images from the film of Stephen King's
Misery
ran through his mind,
along with a surge of frustration that he could recall old movies but not a damn thing about his old life.

Still, he replied, “Okay,” and let it go. He didn't want to need this woman's help. He wanted to think that all he really needed was his past.

“Okay,” she said. “It was a real thrill meeting you, Aaron.”

He nodded. “Wish I could say the same. But I don't feel like I have—met me yet, that is.”

She sighed. “You're talented, gifted even. Special. You really are.”

Hearing that from her made him feel kind of queasy inside, and then suddenly he was sucked into his own head, into what he thought must be his own past.

He saw himself, and thought he would have recognized his own body even if he hadn't spent several long minutes staring into a mirror when he'd first awakened.

He was standing on a sidewalk in the dark, in the pouring rain. Streetlights gleamed on slick pavement. He stood motionless; then, slowly, he raised his arm and looked down its length to the black handgun resting easily in his hand. The laser sight shot through the murky gloom and appeared as a tiny red spot on the chest of the man who stood farther along the broken sidewalk, laughing and talking to the person walking beside him.

He felt himself take a breath, release half of it, and squeeze the trigger. He heard the soft
pffft
of the silencer,
felt the 9 millimeter buck in his hand. And then he saw the man—his victim—jerk stiffly, crumple to his knees and topple facefirst onto the sidewalk.

The victim's companion looked down for a moment, then glanced up and said, “He never saw it coming. You're a freakin' artist, Mr. Adams. An
artist.
You know that?”

“Yeah,” he heard himself mutter. “I'm something, all right.”

He blinked away the memory and was back in the hospital bed, looking at the woman who'd paused near the door to glance back at him.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He gave his head a shake. “Yeah. Fine. Sorry, I'm tired. I guess I zoned out a little.”

“You've had a rough day. Get some rest.”

“Yeah. I will, thanks.”

She smiled at him, a gentle, reassuring smile, and then she walked out of the room. Aaron stared at the ceiling and wondered what that vision had been about. He hoped to God it wasn't a memory and was scared to death that it had been. He didn't think he was a reclusive novelist anymore—if he'd ever believed it. He didn't think that was even
close
to what he did.

“I
t wasn't my car,” Carrie Overton said softly.

Olivia had left Aaron, though she'd done so reluctantly. He certainly wasn't what she'd expected. But she was captivated—and eager to spend more time with him, even while rather disgusted with herself for feeling that way.

She was torn. He was a hero to her. Yet he was still a man. She didn't know what she'd expected him to be. Some kind of genderless word wizard, a spiritual, asexual guru, she supposed.

But he was one hundred percent male in every way that she'd been able to detect. So how did she reconcile the author she'd so admired, and the purity of the bond she'd felt with him through his work, with the gorgeous, sexy man in the hospital bed? The type who would normally send her running in the opposite direction.

She didn't know. And there were a hundred other things on her mind at the moment, things far beyond her questions about Aaron and who would want to kill him,
and why he knew about fingerprint dust and hit men and defensible positions. She was also thinking about having to cancel tomorrow's fundraising event, telling the main office to refund money for the one hundred spots they'd sold, and the length of time she'd left Freddy home alone. Even though he had a doggy door and a fenced-in backyard, he didn't like being by himself for extended periods. She actually came home between classes to spend time with him most days.

So Carrie's statement wasn't translating in Olivia's brain just then. “What?”

Carrie held up a set of keys. “The car that my
brilliant
son and his best friend, Kyle
Einstein
Becker, decided to take out joyriding today—the car they were driving when they found our John Doe in there—it's not mine.”

Olivia's eyes widened. “Are you saying they
stole
a car?
Sam stole a car?
Come on, Carrie, Sam wouldn't steal a Tic Tac.”

Carrie nodded and jangled the keys. “I need you to take it, so he doesn't do this again.”

“Excuse me?” Olivia was baffled. “How can I take a stolen car?”

Carrie shoved the keys into Olivia's palm. “Sorry. I'm not explaining this very well. I feel guilty as hell for not being honest with the police, but I don't want Sammy ending up arrested for grand theft auto.”

“What's going on? Whose car is it? Do they know it's missing? Are they pressing charges?”

“Not exactly.” Carrie lowered her head, and her long
red curls curtained her face. “Long story short, okay? I'm dating Karl Mallory.”

“Professor Mallory—head of the math department? I had no idea he was dating again.” Olivia thought Karl Mallory was a milquetoast dishrag without much of a spine or a hint of a personality, and that a beautiful, intelligent, successful woman like Carrie could do far better. “Seriously? Since when?”

Carrie nodded. “Two dates. It's very casual. But still—he's in Europe for the summer, and he left his gorgeous, prize-winning showpiece of an SUV in my garage until he gets back.
That's
the vehicle my son took out today.”

“Oh,” Olivia said. “Bryan didn't mention that.”

“That's because I didn't tell him. I did phone Karl. Told him what happened. He was upset, but willing to forgive and forget, thank God. I just want to move the thing elsewhere, anywhere, just to get it out of Sam's reach until Karl gets back in two weeks and can take it home.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“He said I should ask you.”

Olivia lifted her brows. She and Karl Mallory weren't close, but they were friendly enough. “I really don't think Sam would do it again, Carrie. Do you?”

“No. But his friends…that's another matter. Aside from his girlfriend, Sadie—that girl is a gem, I swear to God—the rest of the kids he hangs out with, I wouldn't trust as far as I could throw them. And they can be
pretty persuasive—and you know about peer pressure.” She closed her eyes. “I keep getting these nightmare images of what could have happened if they'd gotten there earlier—while the killer was still there, I mean.” She said the final words in a whisper, even though they were alone at the nurses' desk for the moment.

“It won't do any good to think about that,” Olivia said. “It didn't happen that way. He's okay, and he knows what he did was wrong. That's what matters. Besides, he saved the man's life. Bryan said so.”

“That's no excuse.” Carrie lowered her head, sighed. “Karl says you have a two-car garage with only one car in it. So will you do it? Take his SUV and keep it at your place for two weeks?”

Olivia shrugged. “Sure, why not? I have room.”

“Are you sure? It's huge. A Ford Ex-something.”

“It's fine. My garage is pretty big and nicely free of clutter. My SUV's a Ford, too. Escape Hybrid. How much bigger can it be?”

“Great. It's in the parking lot nearest the E.R. Red with black—the paint job jumps right out at you. Hard to miss.”

“I'll take it home now and leave mine here overnight. I can get it tomorrow morning.”

“Better leave your keys here, then. If it looks like it's in danger of being towed, I'll move it for you, and I'll leave those instructions for the night shift, as well.”

“Thanks. It's white, by the way.”

“Well, of course it is.”

Olivia paused in the middle of handing her own keys to Carrie, about to ask just what that comment was supposed to mean, before thinking better of it. She was boring. Okay, everyone knew it. That was exactly how she wanted to be.

Carrie hung the keys on a peg beside the nurses' desk. “So what do you think about him?” she asked. “Do you think he's that writer?”

Bringing his face to mind, Olivia said, “I don't see how he could be anyone else.” She looked at Carrie, bit her lip, then blurted out the question on her mind. “Is it just me, or is he gorgeous?”

“Oh, he's gorgeous, all right,” Carrie told her.

“I thought so. Just didn't trust myself.”

“Why not? You're that big a fan?”

“I've admired him so much for so long that…I don't know, I was afraid my brain might have interpreted him as gorgeous no matter what he looked like. Though I'll admit, I half expected a balding bookworm with Coke-bottle glasses and a pretentious goatee, or maybe a guru in white robes with a shaved head and a vow of celibacy or something.”

“I guess I need to read some of his books,” Carrie said. “But I think I'm happy for you. You got something far better than a guru or a goatee.”

Olivia glanced up at her friend. “I didn't
get
anything.”

“Come on. He's got amnesia. You're his lifeline. And he thinks you're hot. I can tell.”

“He thinks
you're
hot, unless he's blind,” Olivia said.
And he has it all over Karl Mallory,
she added silently.

“Yeah, well, he didn't look at me the way he looked at you, I'll tell you that much.”

“We're cold, divvying up the poor guy like a leftover steak.” Olivia made a face. “That's not like me. I don't usually even
like
men.”

“You'll learn to like this one, I'll bet—if he stays in town long enough,” Carrie said.

Olivia elbowed her lightly in the ribs and smiled, but the smile died quickly. “Carrie, how is he? Really?”

“I think he's fine. His head hurts. And head injuries can be sneaky. But so far, I don't see any sign there's going to be a problem.”

“But you want to keep him overnight anyway.”

“If his brain swells, he'll be in trouble. It's best he stays right here, just overnight. If there's no swelling, he can go home tomorrow. Which is just as well, since we don't even know where home is today.”

“I guess so.”

“So are you heading home now yourself?”

“Not yet. I told him I'd come back to say good-night before I left. Thought I'd run over to the vending machines and get him some junk food first.”

Carrie stared at her for a moment, her head tipped to one side.

“What?”

“I don't know, you're…kind of perkier than usual, aren't you?”

“I am not.” Olivia waved a hand dismissively and went to the vending machines, then headed back to Aaron's room with some chips, some cookies and a couple of cans of root beer.

He lifted his head when she came in, and his eyes warmed a little. She dumped her booty onto his tray table and said, “I figured this would get you through the night.”

The smile in his eyes reached his lips then. “How do you know I even
like
junk food?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Gotta be better than hospital food,” she said. “Besides, how do
you
know you
don't?
”

“Oh, I think I do. My mouth is watering at the sight of it.”

“So your mouth doesn't have amnesia?”

“Apparently not.” He tore open a bag of chips, ate one and held the bag out to her.

She took a chip and munched. Then she licked the salt from her lips and fingertips, and said, “You seem like a nice guy, Aaron. And you write beautiful, touching stories for a living. I just can't imagine anyone having any reason to want you dead. Can you?”

He averted his eyes, and the motion
felt
like an obvious sign of deception, but Olivia told herself that was just her overcautious mind reading into things. She knew she often saw suspicious motives in ordinary behavior. It came from being in hiding for so long, she supposed.
Using a name that wasn't her own. Living a life that felt as frail and temporary as the puffy seeds of a dandelion. One stiff breeze and it could all blow away.

“I just wish I could remember more about my past,” he said. “I must have
really
pissed someone off.”

“
More
about your past? Then you've remembered some of it already?” she asked, eager to hear more.

“No, not really.”

It was a lie. It not only felt like a lie, but it also looked and sounded like one, too. He
had
remembered something.

Okay, now she was being ridiculous, she told herself. What reason would he have to lie to her? He didn't even
know
her.

She shook her head slowly. “Most victims of violent crimes don't jump straight to the conclusion that it was somehow their own fault. Or if they do, they shouldn't. It could be something else. Mistaken identity, a jealous competitor—”

“Yeah. I hear the East Coast writers and the West Coast writers have a real grudge fest going on.”

“I'm not sure I would joke about this, Aaron. Someone really did try to kill you, after all, and that means there has to be a reason.”

He frowned as he studied her. “You seem to be pretty familiar with my…career. Have I been accused of anything in the press? Any violent episodes touted in the tabloids or something like that?”

She lowered her head and told herself to try to state
the facts without sounding like a gushing fan. “I think if you knew who you really are right now, you wouldn't ask those sorts of things.”

“And
you
know who I really am, is that what you're saying?” he asked.

She let her eyes sweep over him, head on the pillow, toes sticking out from beneath the white covers. “I don't know if I do or not. I know the man I think you are, based on the stories you tell. I'd like to think that man is for real.”

“Well, don't keep me in suspense. Tell me. Who am I?”

She took a breath, choosing her words with care. She wasn't going to heap praise on him or pretend a relationship that didn't exist. She didn't see herself as a sappy fan, and she didn't want him to see her that way, either. “I like to think any writer puts something of themselves into their stories. Your protagonist, Harvey Trudeau, is the main character in every one of your novels, and it seems to me his personality is probably the best chance we have of unraveling yours. I could be entirely wrong, but that's my theory.”

“Understood. So you're going to tell me about Harvey, and then time will tell whether the same things apply to his humble creator.”

“Exactly.”

“All right. So tell me about Harvey.”

She shifted her eyes in thought, and then her gaze turned inward as she recalled the character she'd grown
to love. “Harvey is a gentle human being. He's sensitive. He sees beauty in everything around him. There's not a violent bone in his body. He's sweet, and kind, and emotionally deep. He's also very in touch with who he is.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Far from it. Harvey's got his flaws. He doesn't trust people easily, and they usually prove him right. But he misses out on a lot of good relationships because he paints everyone with the same brush. His logic is that it's better to be alone than to risk being hurt and disappointed by trusting someone not worth trusting. I understand that about him.”

His intense eyes seemed to sharpen at those words. But he didn't interrupt.

“So as a result, I think…I think you're lonely.”

“
I'm
lonely? Don't you mean that Harvey's lonely?”

“I think I mean both.”

“And what makes you think that, Olivia?”

She thought that, she mused, because she was lonely, too, and for the very same reasons. She recognized it in him. Had done, even before she'd met him, just by reading his books. She had felt it coming through the pages. But she couldn't very well say so. “I guess it's because Harvey always ends up alone at the end of every book.”

He nodded slowly. “What if I'm nothing like my books?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I suppose that's possible, but it
just doesn't seem very likely. How could you write the way you do if you didn't feel it on some level?” Then she made herself stop, deciding it might be best if she left now, before she made a starstruck fool out of herself. “I should probably go. I'm starting to sound like a gushing fan, and I'm not that. If you need anything, call me, okay?”