Out Of Control (2 page)

Chapter
One

The
cab driver honked for the second time, signaling his impatience. Grabbing her
suitcase and her laptop, Dana Moretti set the alarm panel in her front hall and
hurried out the front door. She considered herself lucky to get a cab to come
out at this hour of the night and she didn’t want him to take off. Having no
idea how long she’d be gone, leaving her car sitting in long-term parking
indefinitely didn’t seem the best choice.

She
barely remembered calling the airline, then haphazardly pulling clothes out of
the closet and chest of drawers. She wasn’t usually this impulsive, but tonight
she was trying to outrun a memory. Make that more than one. And the twenty-five
years that separated them shrank into nothingness.

Leaning
back in the cab, she closed her eyes, trying to instill some calm into her
chaotic mind. Tonight’s episode and its painful conclusion were still too
fresh. Grant Rushing got top marks for effort—fine wine, scented candles, soft
music. Everything for the perfect romantic seduction. Too bad it was all wasted
on damaged goods.

Like
a rewound DVD, the memory of it played through her brain.

“Relax,
Dana.” His voice was soft, gentle. “This isn’t a test. There’s no pass or fail.
It’s okay, honey. Just let yourself feel. You have such a beautiful body. Let
me love it.”

She
swallowed and willed her tense muscles to unwind. God, would it ever be any
different?

“It’s
not your fault,” she told him, feeling sadness and defeat.

As
if someone had thrown a switch, Grant rolled away from her, suddenly remote. “But
not quite good enough, right? I should have known. It’ll take a lot more than
this to defeat the elephant in the room.” The bitterness in his voice was
unmistakable. “Tell me. Is it just with me or are you this way with all men?”

Dana
squeezed her eyes shut, forcing back the tears that burned behind her eyelids. “It
isn’t you, I swear it isn’t. You’re really—”

“If
you tell me I’m a nice guy I might be tempted for the first time in my life to
hit a woman. Spare me, okay?”

“Grant—”

“Forget
it.” He climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom. In the doorway, he
paused and turned to her, his body backlit by the bathroom light. “There’s too
many of us in the bed, Dana. Get rid of the fucking ghost, or we have nothing
more to talk about.”

Grant
certainly wasn’t the first she’d failed with. Unfortunately. She’d been called
everything from frigid to a cock tease to a waste of time. But the moment a man’s
hands touched her at the core of her sex, she was once again seven-year-old
Carrie Nolan, blindfolded and tormented. Back in that barn again, so conscious
of the scent of wood, of blood, of Kylie’s screams and cries.

Her
outer scars had long since healed, but the ones on the inside were still raw
and bleeding. She could change her name, but everything else had stayed the
same. She was still a freak, terrified of men. All men.

Emotionally
and physically.

The
parade of therapists and volumes of reading material hadn’t brought her any
closer to what other women had. A loving fulfilling relationship. Oh, God, how
she wanted it.

“When
the time is right it will happen and you’ll know it.” In her head she heard
again the voice of her current therapist, Dr. Summers. “The barricades will
fall, Dana.”

But
she had her doubts.

Tears
burned behind her eyelids, and her stomach pitched and roiled. Cold shivers
skated over her body. For a moment, she was sure she’d throw up. The hatred for
the man who’d made her into an emotional cripple welled up like poison.
Clenching her fists in her lap, she forced back the nausea.

“Ma’am?”
The rough voice broke into her mental fog, jerking her to awareness. “Ma’am, we’re
here.”

Dana
blinked her eyes and peered through the side window of the cab, realizing they
were in front of one of the terminals at the airport. The roar of planes
overhead mingled with the zing of tires on the interstate and the buzzing in
her head. For a moment, she was tempted to tell the driver to turn around and
take her back home, where she could hide forever behind locked doors. The only
problem was, all that remembered terror would be hiding right along with her.

At
the e-ticket machine, she swiped her credit card and punched in her
information. It wasn’t until she was buckled into her seat, waiting for the
plane to take off, that her mind kicked into gear again.

What
the hell am I doing?

This
was a trip she never thought she’d take, to a place she’d unsuccessfully tried
to banish from her mind. But she’d finally figured out that facing her demons
was the only possible way to get rid of them.

Twenty-five
years had passed since she’d had her last glimpse of High Ridge, in the rolling
Texas Hill Country, through the rear window of the family car. Had the small
ranching community changed much? Would people still remember what happened? Had
they buried the horror and gone on about their business?

Now
she was about to bring it all up again. How would they react?

****

“I’m
sorry, I don’t think we have those editions available.”

Well,
at least I have my answer about their attitude.

Handing
over her business card, Dana had asked as nicely as possible for what she
needed. As soon as she told the woman what dates she was interested in, she could
feel the hostility rise up like a stone wall from the woman behind the counter
at
The High Ridge Messenger.
Marion Jordan wasn’t about to budge an
inch. The pencil in her fingers tapped against the counter with an irritating
cadence.

Tap,
tap, tap.
Pause.
Tap, tap, tap.

Dana
was beyond tired. Landing in San Antonio just after eight o’clock that morning,
she’d rented a car and immediately drove the three hours to High Ridge, fueled
with industrial strength coffee and anxiety. She hadn’t even looked for a motel
yet. And this woman was getting on her last nerve.

She
tucked her hair behind her ears—a chronic nervous gesture—and tried to put on
her best smile.

“Are
you sure?” she asked, her voice cajoling. “Every newspaper I’ve ever worked with
saves their editions all the way back to the very first one. Somewhere. Can you
check for me? Please?”

Marion
Jordan stared at her, lips thinned in disapproval.

Tap,
tap, tap.

“Perhaps
if you tell me what specific information you’re looking for I can direct you to
another source.”

All
right. If that’s the way she wants to play it.

“The
pedophile killer is the subject of my next book, and I need the newspapers for
research. All of them during those dates I gave you.”

Marion’s
eyes were frosty, her posture rigid. “I think writing a book like that would be
a very big mistake. The people in this town suffered a great deal during that
time. I wouldn’t want to be the one helping you rake it all up again.”

Dana
mentally counted to ten. “Perhaps there’s someone else here who could be of
better assistance.”

“I
can promise you no one will want to discuss this with you,” Marion assured her.
“You can count on that. It took this town a long time to get over it. They won’t
want it all dragged out again.”

The
two women stared at each other.

“Is
there a problem here?” A gravelly voice broke into the chill.

Dana
hadn’t heard the outside door behind her open, but suddenly a man stood next to
her. Dressed in jeans and a work shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looked to
be about the same age as Marion Jordan. Mid-forties, Dana guessed. His hair,
worn just a little long, was heavily laced with gray, with traces of its
original sandy color here and there. His broad forehead was currently wrinkled
in a frown.

Looking
at him, her body tensed. Could he be the one? Was that possible? He was about
the right age and height. Would she end up looking at every man in the county
as a possible suspect?

Cut
it out. Pull yourself together.

“I’m
sorry, Mr. Garrett. I told this woman the editions of the paper she wants aren’t
available.” Each word was an icicle dropping from Marion Jordan’s lips.

Tap
tap tap.

“I’ll
take care of it, Marion. Thanks.” He held out his hand to Dana. “John Garrett.
I’m the editor here.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “For my sins.”

“Dana
Moretti.” She withdrew her hand as quickly as she could. Although she managed
in pubic with rigid discipline, contact of any kind with men froze everything
inside her.

“The
writer.” His sharp eyes studied her.

“Yes.”
She fished out another business card.

“Marion
usually isn’t so obstinate about requests.” He ran his fingers through his hair
in an absent gesture. “Can you tell me a little more about what you want?”

“I’m
here to do research for my next book. When I made a request to look at some old
editions of the newspaper, I discovered there’s apparently some problem with me
seeing them.”

Garrett’s
eyes narrowed. “Here? What could possibly interest you in a small town like
High Ridge?”

“She
wants to see the newspapers from twenty-five years ago,” Marion told him, her
face tight. “You know which ones. I said they weren’t available.”

Garrett
studied the card for a long minute. “You want to dig up the pedophile killer
case.”

“That’s
right. If you’ve read any of my books, you know my interest is in old cases
that were never solved.”

He
stuck the card in his shirt pocket. “Well, Miss Moretti, I don’t think you’ll
be doing this town any favors if you go ahead with what you’re planning. People
here would just as soon not have to deal with it all over again. For many of
them, it’s still as real as if it happened yesterday.”

Dana
swallowed her frustration and tried to blink the grit from her eyes. A glance
at her watch told her she’d been going for more than twenty hours, catnapping
only briefly on the plane. The adrenaline that drove her this far was beginning
to slide.

She
moistened her lips, trying to tamp down her impatience. “I’m surprised that no
one wants to find out who the pedophile really was. He could still be someone
in this community, hiding behind his public face.”

“We
all agreed it was just some itinerant working in the area who’s since moved on.”
Garrett’s voice was hard. “Not anyone who actually lived here.”

“You
were here then?”

He
nodded. “Lived here all my life.”

“Then
maybe—”

He
lifted the flap in the counter and gestured for her to follow him through the
main area. “Maybe we’d be better discussing this in my office.”

Dana
looked around the area at the small staff of reporters and graphic artists,
suddenly aware that everyone was listening with open curiosity. “All right.”

She’d
been stonewalled before and could play the game as well as anyone. But the knot
in her stomach reminded her that this time the game was personal and far too
important to let anything get in the way.

“Coffee?”
Garrett asked, indicating a pot on a small table next to his desk.

“Yes,
thank you. Black, please.” Right now a good jolt of caffeine was exactly what
she needed to jack herself up again.

“It’s
been a long time since all that nasty stuff happened,” he told her, handing her
a Styrofoam cup and lowering himself into his desk chair. “I don’t know if you’ve
done any research on Salado County or High Ridge itself, but they’re nice
friendly places. What happened scared the bejeesus out of everyone, and they
were grateful when it was over.”

It’s
not over and done with for everyone.
“So they just want to keep pretending
it never happened?”

Garrett
leaned forward, set his cup down carefully and steepled his fingers. When he
looked at Dana his eyes were like hard pebbles.

“The
last…incident…was different than the others,” he said slowly, “and then it
just…stopped. Nothing’s happened since then. As far as this town is concerned,
whoever it was didn’t come from around here. Maybe someone doing casual labor in
the county for a couple of years. Someone who didn’t call attention to himself.
You know people like that don’t appear much on the radar. Now he’s gone.”

Meaning
he could have been one of the many illegals.
But Dana didn’t think so. And
she couldn’t say anything yet without giving herself away.

When
she spoke she tried to keep the impatience from her voice. “What if they’re
wrong? What if that person is still living here, a member of the community,
laughing at everyone because of what he got away with?”