Midnight Caller (18 page)

 

She lay in the circle of Trevor's arms, her fingers stroking the side of his face. A silvery gray had begun to replace the night sky, and a lone bird warbled in the olive tree outside her bedroom.

“You never really told me how this happened,” Rain said quietly, touching the healing cut on his forehead.

“I wasn't watching where I was going. Nothing more exotic.”

“What about this?” Her fingers moved to the faded scar that ran across his chin. Gently, he captured her hand in his own, bringing it down to his chest. Seconds passed before he spoke.

“I was ten or eleven. My father was drunk. He was going after Brian for spilling milk in the kitchen, and I got between them.”

Rain lifted her head. She recalled what Alex had told her, about Trevor's father being an abusive son of a bitch. “He hit you?”

“He shoved me into the counter. I caught the corner of it.” His features were impassive as he used his thumb to trace small circles over the back of her hand. Rain felt anger and sympathy for what he'd gone through.

“Where was your mother?”

“There wasn't anything she could do. She was afraid of him herself.”

“She could have gone to the police.”

He looked into her eyes. “James Rivette
was
the police, Rain. Sixteen years with the NOPD before he was fired for misconduct. My mother called the cops to the house
once.
He made sure she never did it again.”

“What happened?”

“She spent the night in jail. When they let her out, my father beat the hell out of her all over again.”

Rain fell silent. She pressed her lips against Trevor's shoulder. “I'm sorry. Do you ever see him? Your father?”

He shook his head. “At least not on purpose.”

Downstairs, the grandfather clock in the parlor chimed in low tones, announcing the early hour. Trevor slid his fingers through her hair. “As long as we're making confessions, want to tell me why you're unable to drive a car?”

Rain sighed in the darkness, aware it was her turn to share.

“I was fifteen and Aunt Celeste was teaching me to drive. I wanted to get my learner's permit. We were taking practice circles around the block, and the neighbor's dog ran out in front of me. A little blond cocker spaniel named Trixie that I loved. I ran over her. She was stuck underneath the wheels.”

She felt a lump form in her throat. “I can still hear her howling in pain while Celeste tried to get her out. We rushed her to the vet, but she died on the way. I was never able to drive again after that. Every time I tried, I'd end up sitting on
the side of the road with my heart racing like a freight train, afraid to go farther.”

For a moment, she thought he might dismiss her story or try to minimize it in some way. But he lifted her chin and kissed her, as if trying to push away the hurtful memory.

“Thank you,” Rain murmured. “For being here tonight.”

“I meant what I said, Rain. I don't ever want to hurt you.”

Don't think,
she wanted to say, aware of the worries mounting again behind his eyes. She needed to cling to this moment a little longer, before reality came crashing back in on them. Tugging the sheet higher, she turned on her side and snuggled against him. Trevor's breath was warm on her skin.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered. Their shared body heat enticed her back to sleep.

H
e'd recited the Act of Contrition over and over, as a child. He recalled the voice speaking right along with his, filling in the gaps whenever he forgot a word.

But now the prayer weakened and died, strangled from his throat as if by unseen hands. He didn't want this blood-thirst anymore. It didn't come naturally to him, nor was he able to easily slough away the guilt.

Despite these feelings, the voice was calling for him again. It demanded his presence. He left the beads on the cool marble floor as he rose from his knees and clapped his hands over his ears. More than anything, he wanted to silence the voice.

For a time, he'd slipped into the raven night, losing himself in the dim, ancient alleyways and smoke-filled clubs. He'd become one with the dancers thrashing under pulsing black lights.
Poseurs, all of them,
he thought darkly, with their dyed
hair and grotesque daydreams of violence and vampires. They had no idea how fucking real it could get.

It would be morning soon. But here, the music still played, the same endless vinyl record, and the smell of perfumed candle wax permeated the room. There was no escape, he realized.

I detest all my sins.

Closing his eyes, he felt lost. He didn't know who he was anymore, except for one of the damned.

T
he phone's insistent ring nudged Rain from sleep. She stretched out her arm and felt for Trevor's presence, but found only an empty mattress. Blinking against the morning light, she picked up the handset.

“Dr. Sommers, this is Art Donovan with the Associated Press. I'd like to talk to you about
Midnight Confessions
and the alleged serial killer you've been speaking with on air—”

Rain slammed down the phone and sat up, pulling the sheets around her naked body. If she had been drowsy when she'd answered, she was wide awake now. No one outside law enforcement was supposed to know about the connection between the serial-murder investigation and her radio show. Retrieving a short silk robe that matched the gown she'd worn the night before, Rain went downstairs in search of Trevor. Rounding the corner into the dining area, however, she nearly ran into the broad back of a uniformed officer who was helping himself to coffee from the French press. He turned, nearly as surprised to see her.

“Morning, ma'am.” The bar pin over his shield was inscribed with the name J. Arseneau. A sandy-haired male in
his early twenties, he blushed at Rain's state of undress. She tightened the robe's sash around her waist.

“I made fresh coffee. Hope that's okay?”

“Of course.” Rain felt cool air on her bare legs and stepped behind one of the chairs, out of his direct line of view. “Where is Agent Rivette?”

The officer poured a shocking amount of sugar into one of the Wedgwood cups.

“Spoons are in the drawer to your right.”

“Thanks.” He got one out and stirred the cup's contents, awkwardly bumping his holstered gun against the Chippendale sideboard in the process. “Agent Rivette left at seven this morning, soon as I got here to take over his watch. You know, my grandmère always used a French press for coffee. Gives it a richer taste.”

Rain hadn't heard Trevor leave, hadn't felt the mattress shift as he left her alone in bed. Glancing into the parlor, she thought of his mouth on hers and the hard feel of his body as he held her.

“They say any publicity's good publicity, right?”

She realized she hadn't been listening to the officer, but his last words made her return her gaze to him. “Excuse me?”

“The paper says this psycho's been stalking you for a while now.” He blew on the dark surface of his coffee before taking a sip. “But you've got nothing to worry about with me around. I scored in the top five percent of the academy on marksmanship, top ten percent in hand-to-hand combat. He won't come back around here unless he wants an ass kickin'.”

Rain moved her gaze to the table, where the black ink of the headline stood out against the dull gray of the morning newspaper:

Serial Killer Stalks Host of Late-Night Radio Show.

She took the paper upstairs to her bedroom. It was all there in print, from details of the FBI surveillance on
Midnight
Confessions,
to excerpts of her conversations with Dante on the air. Rain rubbed her forehead as she read about the attack in her home, as well as speculation that it was the killer, who'd intended to make her his next victim before being thwarted by police. There was also a sidebar that rehashed her parents' violent murder-suicide thirty years earlier. The piece included a photo of Rain, a publicity shot taken for
Midnight Confessions,
next to a look-alike image of Desiree. The caption read, Déjà Vu: Daughter of Murdered Singer Nearly Becomes a Victim Herself.

Rain jumped when the phone on the nightstand rang for the second time that morning. She viewed it suspiciously—her number was unlisted, but it hadn't kept the AP reporter from locating her.

The Associated Press. The newswire's interest meant the story wasn't just local; it was being picked up for national release. This time, she looked at the caller ID on the handset before answering. The number was one she recognized.

“Rain, I'm sending a car for you. We need you at the studio.”

Shoving her hair from her face, Rain glanced out the window. There were two vans parked across the street, the closest of which had WKOL-TV, The News You Need to Know across its side in bold print. Two cameramen and a reporter loitered in the shade of the pecan tree.

“I'm not coming in, David.”

“Don't pull this shit, Rain. I've got freaking CNN calling—”

“Did you leak the story?” She closed her eyes, already knowing the answer.

“Who the hell cares? The point is, it's out now. This Dante nutcase is obsessed with you. He tried to kill you yesterday. It's a public-interest story and the media's all over it. I already got a call this morning from
People
magazine. I can't
buy publicity like this and I'm not going to let you ruin it for me.”

“I'm not talking to anyone. We don't even know for certain if it was Dante who attacked me last night.”

“Here's the deal. You're still under contract, the terms of which include promotional appearances for
Midnight Confessions.
”

“This is hardly a promotional appearance—”

“Be at the studio in one hour or consider your resignation tendered. Everyone's replaceable. Even you.”

The line went dead, and Rain returned the handset to the console. She'd wanted out of her contract, hadn't she? Still, the idea that David had leaked the story in an attempt to gain publicity for
Midnight Confessions
astounded her. Rain thought of Trevor. The story was no doubt causing problems for him. While there had already been media reports about a purported serial killer in New Orleans, the increased publicity would further fuel public attention and increase pressure to find the culprit. Unfortunately, as Desiree Sommers's daughter, her involvement made the story doubly sensational. She retrieved the handset and dialed Trevor's cell phone, but got his voice mail. Rain left a message asking him to call.

By the time she'd showered and dressed, she still hadn't heard from him. She was about to try his cell phone again when a commotion broke out downstairs. Raised voices competed with the high-pitched blare of the security system before the noise was extinguished. Cautiously, Rain opened the door to the bedroom. She peered over the railing to see Officer Arseneau pinning Oliver against the wall despite the younger man's howls of protest.

He was dragging Oliver's hands behind his back and trying to cuff him, when Rain made it down the staircase.

“Let go of him!” she yelled, afraid the officer wouldn't
be able to hear her over Oliver's scathing curses. “He's one of my patients!”

Although Oliver was nearly as tall as the officer, the uniformed man was more muscular and, true to his word, well trained. When the teen tossed off a hostile
fuck you,
the officer kicked the back of his knees. Oliver dropped to the floor with a painful grunt.

“That's enough,” Rain pleaded.

“Snotty son of a bitch—sorry, ma'am—came through the back door like he owned the place.” The officer replaced the handcuffs on his belt and rested his right hand against the gun on his waist. “He jimmied the lock. I caught him trying to disarm the security system he set off. He's lucky I didn't shoot him.”

“You'll be lucky if I don't sue you for police brutality!” Oliver picked himself up. His black hair hung across his eyes and his mouth was a grim line. He pushed the long sleeves of his black T-shirt back up to his elbows, their angular points reddened by carpet burn from the rug.

Rain moved toward him. Although he wasn't physically injured, it was clear his pride was hurt. His face looked even more bloodless and pale than usual. There was also a glassy sheen to his eyes.

“What the hell is
he
doing here?” Oliver demanded.

“Someone broke into my house yesterday.” Rain peered at him. “Are you okay?”

“I needed to see you.” He yanked at his greasy hair. Glaring at the officer, he added, “Alone.”

She stretched out her hand. “Let's go into my office.”

“That's not a good idea, ma'am.” Officer Arseneau grabbed Oliver by the collar and hauled him backward. “This kid's high as a Georgia pine. Not to mention he just assaulted a police officer. I'll lay you ten to one he's carrying narcotics. Want to empty your pockets for me, son?”

Oliver jerked free. “Screw you! I don't need this!”

“Oliver, please—”

Giving the finger to Officer Arseneau, he stormed out the front door. Rain followed him onto the veranda and called after him as he retreated down the stairs. But the news crew across the street snapped to attention, prohibiting her from going farther. Defeated, she went back inside.

 

The reporters in the WNOR reception area shouted his name, but Trevor ignored them as he went past. A press conference had been scheduled for noon involving the local FBI, NOPD and the D.A.'s office. The newshounds could wait until then to assail him with their questions.

Ella met him in the hallway outside David's office. “You can't go in there.”

He ignored her as well, brushing past and slamming the door closed behind him. David was on the phone, his feet propped up on his desk as he leaned back in the leather executive chair. He didn't seem surprised by Trevor's appearance and continued talking to whoever was on the other end of the line.

Reaching over, Trevor yanked the phone console's cord from the wall. David's loafers dropped from the desk with a thud as he glowered at him.

“Do you have any idea who I was talking to?”

“I don't give a damn. I know you leaked the story, D'Alba. I already talked to the reporter at the
Times-Picayune,
who's claiming an anonymous source. But the guy had dubs from the shows Dante called into. No one else could have given him those.”

David raised his shoulders in an innocent shrug. “I give out audio segments all the time. It's good business.”

“And the attack on Rain? I guess you're going to say you didn't fill him in on that.”

With a smug expression, David rose and walked to the other side of his desk. He sat down on its corner and crossed his arms over his chest. “Let's say I did tip off the media. As a broadcast medium, WNOR is free from prior restraint. I've done nothing wrong. I'm just helping disseminate the news.”

“What you're doing is jeopardizing a serial-murder investigation—all for a little publicity,” Trevor countered fiercely. “It's practically guaranteed the unsub won't be calling back in here now, shutting down one of the best leads we've had—”

“It's not my fault you haven't been able to do your job and catch this bastard, Rivette.”

A knock at the door interrupted them. Ella stuck her head inside the office. “David, I've got the latest draft of the press release. I had Marketing rework my bio like you said.”

Sashaying in, she handed him several sheets of paper, then massaged his shoulders as he looked them over. Ella wore a scarf halter top and low-rider slacks paired with metallic thong sandals. She flashed Trevor a barracuda smile.

“I'm taking over for Rain,” she announced. “Did you hear? She resigned this morning. The poor thing's too traumatized to continue with the show. It looks like I'll be talking to Dante from now on, Agent Rivette.”

Trevor stared at her. “Do you really think he's going to want to talk to you?”

Ella looked perplexed.

“Take the release back to Marketing and tell them it's good to go,” David instructed her. “See if they can get it on the wire before lunch.”

He waited until she'd left the office before speaking again. “You see, I really do care about Rain. Which is why I'm letting her out of her contract three months early without suing her little ass.”

“Let me guess,” Trevor said. “You're going to use the media attention to announce Ella as the new host of
Midnight Confessions.
”

“I'm a survivor. I won't apologize for that.”

Trevor stepped forward. “Listen to me. You've screwed up this investigation all you're going to. If I so much as hear Ella say the name Dante on the air, I'll get an injunction from the municipal judge. You can scream freedom of the press all you want, but it'll take weeks to get the restriction lifted. Time your precious show will be off the air.”

He headed toward the door when David's words stopped him. “You're fucking her, aren't you?”

Trevor turned and looked at the other man, who had a razor-thin smile.

“She's sweet, isn't she?” His eyebrows raised. “A bit small for my tastes, but that means she's nice and tight where—”

He barely realized he was moving. Trevor grabbed him by the shirt and pinned him against the wall, bracing his forearm across the other man's throat. David wheezed and attempted to draw in air. Seconds passed before Trevor pushed away, leaving David clutching his throat as he bent his knees and slid down to the floor. Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes.

And then he started to laugh.

Trevor exhaled sharply, the quick burst of anger leaving him stunned. The room's colors seemed to run together, gun-metal gray and burnt sienna conspiring with the bland oatmeal walls and carpet. Muttering under his breath, he stalked out.