Proposal (5 page)

 

Nueve

I
F
I
HADN'T
believed Mark's version of what had happened that night on Rocky Creek Bridge, I did when I saw the expression that flashed across Zack Farhat's face when I said Mark was coming to kill him.

Sheer panic. For a second, he lowered his hands to the king-­sized mattress and began to push himself up from in front of the plasma screen, as if to go with me.

Never had I seen a more guilty-­looking individual, someone who'd known he'd done wrong and had been expecting what was coming to him. Zack—­a strong, dark, handsome boy—­was accepting his fate like a man.

Well, this is good
, I thought.
Not what I was expecting, but good . . . the first good thing to happen all day, as a matter of fact. Maybe things are starting to go my way.

Of course I thought too soon. It didn't last. Why would it?

Because a split second later, Zack seemed to realize something through his drug-­induced haze, and froze. The panic left, and was replaced by a look I recognized, because I'd seen it before on the faces of a hundred guys just like him.

Nope. Never mind. No win for Suze. This guy thought he was smarter than me. He thought he was smarter than everyone.

Well, why not? He'd already killed two ­people and gotten away with it. All he had to do was stick with his story, and he was home free.

Or so he thought.

He lowered himself back against his bed.

“Wait,” he said, drawing the word out so that it had about five syllables, in true stoner form. “Mark can't be coming here to kill me. He's dead.”

“You're right about the last part,” I said. “Not so right about the first. Mark's dead, but he's not very happy with you for killing him, and Jasmin, too. See, that's why minors aren't supposed to smoke that stuff unless they're under a licensed physician's care. It makes them forgetful.” I hit him in the forehead with the flat of my hand on the word
forgetful
. “And also stupid.” I hit him again on the word
stupid
.

“Ow.” He ducked and crawled to the far side of the bed so he'd be out of my reach. “Stop that. What are you talking about? What makes you think I had anything to do with—­?”

“The deaths of Mark Rodgers and Jasmin Ahmadi? Oh, gosh, Zack, I don't know. Maybe
that
?”

I pointed to a far wall of his room, opposite a pair of French doors that led out to a balcony overlooking the Pacific Ocean (which for once didn't look so pacified, thanks to the storm). Taped to the wall were dozens—­maybe even a hundred—­photos of Jasmin, including the one from her headstone, which must have been one of her senior photos, since there were other equally posed photos of her in the same outfit, smiling confidently into the camera.

Only instead of sending these photos out with her graduation announcements, her grieving family had apparently sent them to her friends and family with an announcement of her death.

Zack had artfully arranged these particular photos in a large heart shape around a single photo of the two of them arm-­in-­arm from what appeared to have been a Halloween party, since he was dressed as a tiger and she a bunny rabbit (I estimated it was a party circa fourth grade, possibly the last time Jasmin had willingly allowed herself to be photographed beside him, at least on nondigital film).

Beneath this display Zack had lit a number of votive candles on a small table, and also laid out a copy of what appeared to be their school yearbook, open to a page showing Jasmin's prowess on the track team.

Oh, yeah. This guy wasn't a creeper at all.

“If that's not a shrine,” I said, “I don't know what is.”

“So?” Zack looked sullen. “What's so weird about that? She was my cousin, and she died. That's what ­people do when someone they love dies.”

“Oh, yeah? How much did you love her, Zack? Enough to fly into a jealous rage when she started seeing someone else?”

That got to him. His gaze darkened, and his lower jaw began to jut out a little. I think he was trying to look manly, but that was a little difficult for a kid wearing so many gold necklaces . . . especially one playing video games. He'd reached for the remote again.

“Get out of my room,” he said, his gaze fastened to the screen. “I don't even know who you are. And I sure as hell don't know what you're talking about.”

“I think I do know what I'm talking about, Zack. You followed them the night of the accident. You followed them to the restaurant, saw Mark propose, and saw her say yes.”

He shrugged, still staring at the screen. The sounds of the tortured deaths he was causing were loud enough nearly to drown out the rain outside.

“Nice try, lady,” he said. “Everyone in the restaurant saw that. It was on the news.”

“What wasn't on the news was what happened after Mark and Jasmin left the restaurant,” I said. “How you followed them out of the parking lot in your—­what did Mark call it? Oh yes. Your souped-­up monster truck—­then turned your brights on, riding their tail until you forced them into that cliff off Rocky Creek Bridge, because the other lane was closed.”

That got his attention. His fingers stilled on the game console. His gaze flicked uneasily toward me.

“That . . . that isn't true.” But the unsteadiness of his voice—­and what he said next—­proved otherwise. “And even if it was—­which it isn't—­there weren't any witnesses. Mark's dead. So is Jasmin. Mark can't do anything to me because he's dead.”

It was at that moment that the French doors to the balcony burst open with an explosive crash.

 

Diez

B
LOWN WIDE B
Y
a sudden gust of gale-­force wind, the open balcony doors allowed rain and leaves to fly across the room.

The gale detached most of Jasmin's photos from the wall of the shrine on the opposite wall, and doused the flames in the votive candles, plunging the room into darkness, except for the glow of the plasma screen. The gauzy white curtains that hung from a rod above the doors streamed like the yearning arms of a mother reaching for her long-­lost child.

Zack let out an expletive, threw down the game console, and leaped from his bed, looking terrified.

I didn't blame him. I wasn't feeling particularly calm myself . . . and it was my job to
expect
this kind of thing.

“See, Zack?” I said, shouting to be heard over the roar of the storm outside and the banging of the French doors as the wind continued to suck them open and then closed again. “I told you. Mark is pissed.”

As if to stress my point, a flash of lightning filled the sky outside, striking so close that it turned the room from midnight dark to bright as day and then back again, all in the blink of an eye . . . then caused the television to short out, showering the area where Zack had been sitting on the bed seconds before in an explosion of colorful sparks. The thunderous boom that followed was strong enough to shake the entire house.

“Holy shit,” Zack cried, sinking into a ball on the floor and cradling his head against his knees. “I didn't mean it. Oh, my God, I didn't mean to do it. I didn't mean for it to happen that way!”

The second he admitted it, the storm stopped. As if someone had pulled a switch, the French doors stopped banging, and the wind and rain and debris that had been streaming through them died away, leaving behind only the smell of ocean brine and the earthy odor of petrichor, the fragrance released from soil after it's gone too long without rain. The gauzy white curtains on either side of the balcony doors hung limp, like abandoned rag dolls.

“Oh, my God,” Zack sobbed softly into his knees. “Oh, my God. Thank God.”

The thing was, he thought he was safe now. And why wouldn't he? The storm was over.

I knew, however, that it had only just begun.

Because I could see what Zack couldn't. And that was that he and I weren't alone in that dark bedroom. Standing next to one of those gauzy white curtains was a figure, a dark figure dressed all in black, even down to the frames of his eyeglasses. He was staring at Zack's crumpled, sobbing form.

And there wasn't the slightest hint of pity in his gaze.

“What should I do to him?” Mark asked me in an emotionless voice.

“Nothing,” I said. “You've done enough already. Leave him alone, Mark. Like I told you in the cemetery, it will only make things worse for you if you do anything to him. He admitted it. I'll make sure justice is served.”

“Justice,” Mark said, with a sneer. “What a stupid, meaningless word. Justice isn't going to bring her back. Or me.”

“I know. But he'll get what he deserves.”

“No,” Mark said. There was emotion in his voice now. It was scorn. “He won't. You watch. He won't. The rich never do.”

I was afraid Mark was right. Where was the proof? That was the problem. There was no proof.

But I tried to lie, for Mark's sake.

“His mother's a good person,” I said. “I don't know about his dad, but I think he's all right, too. They're both trying to help others. When they find out the dangerous person their son really is, they'll make sure he's removed from society.”

Mark let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure. That will happen.”

Zack lifted his head and stared at me through eyelids that were even more red-­rimmed than before. “Who the
hell
are you talking to, lady?”

“Mark,” I replied, simply. I leaned down to adjust my boots. I had a feeling I was going to need them in a few minutes. “He's here to kill you. I was just telling him that isn't going to be necessary. You're going to put yourself away for what you did to him and Jasmin.”

Zack wiped his eyes, his expression growing steelier by the second. “The hell I am.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, doing a few neck rolls. “You are. You're a danger to yourself, Zack, but mostly you're a danger to others.”

“You're full of shit,” was Zack's witty reply.

“That's entirely possible,” I said, pushing up my sleeves. “But your tendency toward violence; your blatant disregard for the law; your obvious disdain for the rights and feelings of anyone besides yourself; but most of all your complete and total lack of remorse or guilt about your actions—­you were only crying just now because you were sorry you got caught, not sorry for what you did—­leads me to believe that you're a full-­on sociopath. Maybe even a psychopath.” I shrugged. “I don't know. I don't have my degree yet, so I can't guarantee which for sure. But do you know what I can guarantee? You are going down for the murders of Mark Rodgers and Jasmin Ahmadi. The only question is, do you want it to be the hard way? Or the easy way?”

His only response was a grunt. He'd lowered his brows into a scowl, apparently not caring for my calling him a psychopath even though all evidence pointed to this being the truth. This became especially obvious when his next move was to rise from the floor and come at me like a defensive tackle—­which, for all I knew, could have been the position he played on the school team, though I hadn't seen any trophies or sports paraphernalia in his room.

Then he rammed me in the gut with his shoulder with so much force, the two of us went flying into his bookshelf.

It wasn't like I hadn't been ready for something like this. In my line of work, I get hit a lot. Father Dominic despairs of what he calls my “punch first, ask questions later” technique of Non-­Compliant Deceased Person mediation.

But generally the ­people with whom I engage in fisticuffs are, in fact, deceased. It was a bit unusual for me to be body slammed by a living, breathing boy who had just informed me (in his own way) that he was not a danger to others.

“This isn't doing a whole lot to prove to me that you have non-­violent tendencies,” I said to Zack as he lay on top of me amid the rubble that had once been his bookshelf.

Or I tried to say it. What came out wasn't anything as coherent, since he'd knocked all the breath from me—­and probably some of the radishes I'd eaten earlier, as well. I was afraid to look.

I became aware of a painful throbbing in my side that worsened every time I moved. Oh, great.

Zack didn't seem at all troubled by our hard landing. He rose up on one hand and lifted his other in a fist—­a fist I noticed was sizable enough to do a great deal of damage if it managed to connect with my delicate feminine features.

“I'm going to kill you,” he casually informed me.

Before I could duck, a strong brown hand closed around Zack's wrist.

“Not tonight,” a deep, masculine—­and warmly familiar—­voice said.

 

Once

“D
IDN'T YOUR MOTHER
ever warn you what can happen to young ladies who wander into young men's private bedrooms during social gatherings?” Jesse asked, as he hauled Zack Farhat off me. “It can be bad for their health.”

“Oh, sure.” Now that I could breathe again, I sat up and took a careful assessment of my rib bone situation. None appeared to be broken, but there were going to be bruises for sure. I wouldn't be swimming much for the next few weeks. “Blame the victim. That's what everybody does.”

“I didn't mean you,
querida
,” Jesse said. His dark-­eyed gaze, generally so full of warmth—­except, of course, when he was thinking about his time as a member of the undead—­was as cold with contempt as I could ever remember seeing it, and it was focused on Zack. “I meant it can be unhealthy for the young men.”

He'd flipped on the overheard lights—­the electricity seemed to be working perfectly now that the storm had passed—­and I could see that he hadn't loosened his grip on Zack's wrist. In fact, now he gave it a twist, bending the boy's arm behind his back in a painful submission hold that I knew my stepbrother Brad, who was still obsessed with wrestling, would probably admire.

“Let go of me, asshole.” Zack struggled against his captor, but soon found that the more he fought, the more painful Jesse's grip on him became. “Seriously, stop. That really hurts. Do you want me to call my dad? Because I will, motherfu—­”

“I'm actually right here, Zakaria,” said a stern voice from the doorway.

Though it was a little painful to turn my head, I glanced in that direction, and saw that a well-­dressed gentleman—­one I could only presume, from his horrified expression was Dr. Farhat—­had come up the stairs behind Jesse, along with Zack's mother.

So had the mayor. So had the chief prosecutor. So had the police chief.

Wow. It was like the who's who of Carmel-­by-­the-­Sea.

“We heard a terrible noise,” said Mrs. Farhat, looking pale beneath her elegant makeup. She kept glancing over at me, sitting in the wreckage of her son's bookshelf. Zack still owned some of his childhood favorites—­the complete Harry Potter collection, and
Good Dog Carl
. I probably looked ridiculous, sitting there among them.

But I probably hadn't looked so ridiculous when they'd opened the door and seen him crouched over me with his fist raised.

“We came up to see what in heaven's name is going on here. But I'm not so sure I want to know.” Mrs. Farhat looked as horrified as her husband. “What were you doing to her, Zakaria?”

“
Me?
” Zack bleated. “Mom, you've got to be kidding me. She's the one who started it. She was trying to say that I killed Jasmin! Like
I
would ever do something like that. You know how much I loved Jasmin. We had something special. You and Dad said so yourselves. You used to say you thought we'd be married some day—­”

“Oh, Zakaria.” Mrs. Farhat's dark eyes were filled with compassion for her son—­but also something else. Something I recognized.

Dread. She knew. She knew what was coming.

“Daddy and I were only ever joking about that, Zakaria,” she went on. “It was only a little joke between us because when you were little, the two of you got along so well. But it was simply the kind of thing ­people say. We didn't mean anything by it—­”

“Didn't mean anything by it?” Zack looked incensed. “But Jasmin and I
did
have something special. And then she had to go and spoil it by—­”

“Zakaria!” Mrs. Farhat's eyes widened. The dread was turning to fear.

My heart swelled with pity for the poor woman. What must it be like, giving birth to a monster?

“I don't understand what's going on here,” Dr. Farhat said. It was clear that he hadn't yet realized what his wife had—­what his son truly was. He saw only the devastation in the room, the leaves and debris that been swept in from the storm, the blown-­out plasma screen, the decimated bookshelf and me on the floor . . .

. . . and the photos of Jasmin Ahmadi that littered almost every flat surface, even the carpet at the chief of police's feet, where a few had fluttered out into the hallway when Jesse had opened the door.

He didn't yet understand what the photos meant, nor could he see—­because no one could see it, no one but me and Jesse—­the ghost of Mark Rodgers, still standing by the French doors, watching, waiting to see if justice really would be served, like I'd promised.

“What's happened?” Dr. Farhat asked, throwing a nervous glance at the table where the votive candles still stood. The only photo that still remained on the wall above them was the one of Zack and Jasmin in their Halloween costumes. The doctor seemed to be starting to put the clues together. “Why would this woman say that Zakaria killed Jasmin?”

“Because she's a lying bitch!” Zack screamed, trying to lunge at me. But Jesse's grip was too strong for him, and all he ended up doing was hurting himself. He did fling a few other choice swearwords at me, however, that caused his father to thunder at him, “Stop it! I will not have that kind of language in my house!”

Then Dr. Farhat turned to the mayor and chief of police and said, politely, “I apologize. I don't know what's come over my son. Maybe it's the storm. Or maybe . . . well, he's had a great shock. Truthfully, he's been acting this way ever since the death of his cousin—­Jasmin Ahmadi. He's taken it—­we've all taken it—­very hard.”

Mrs. Farhat was looking down at me, compassion—­and resignation—­in her beautiful dark eyes. “Are
you
all right, my dear?”

“Not really,” I said. I didn't want to do it—­especially to her, because she seemed so kind—­but I had to. I'd promised Mark. And killing monsters is my job. “I took a wrong turn on the way to the bathroom, and your son and I ended up talking, and then all of a sudden, from out of nowhere, he flew into a homicidal rage and tried to kill me.”

“I'm so sorry,” Mrs. Farhat murmured, even as her son once again screamed that I was a liar.

But this time everyone ignored him. The chief prosecutor held out a hand and helped me to my feet. I could feel Jesse's worried gaze on me, so I tried not to lean too heavily on the tall man's grip, even though I wanted to. Instead, I leaned casually against the wall once he'd released my fingers, trying to appear as if I normally leaned against walls and was not in the least sore from the ass kicking I'd just received.

I could tell from Jesse's expression that he, at least, was not fooled.

“I thought about cancelling the party,” Mrs. Farhat went on, her gaze downcast. “Perhaps I should have. But it's always so popular, and raises so much money for charity—­”

“No need to apologize, ma'am,” the chief of police said. “We understand.” Having stooped to lift one of the photos of Jasmin, he now turned it over in his hand. It had become rain spattered, the edges torn from the battering it had received by the wind. “I can see the kids were very close.”

“Well, yes,” Dr. Farhat said, distractedly. He still seemed to be trying to make sense of what he was seeing and hearing, as if his youngest son was a heart he'd opened up on the operating table, only to find that it was diseased beyond repair. “As very young children. Not so close as they got older, of course, but—­”

“That's your fault,” Zack sneered. “Maybe if you'd been more strict with her—­if her parents had, too—­she'd have done what she was supposed to, and said yes to marrying me instead of that—­”

He then said a word so foul, it caused every head in the room to turn sharply in his direction, particularly the chief prosecutor's, since he, along with Mark Rodgers, happened to belong to the race it slandered.

That's when Mrs. Farhat took two swift strides forward and slapped her son across the face. Now that the rain had stopped—­and the party downstairs had gone strangely quiet, as well—­the only ambient noise was the rhythmic pound of the ocean waves below, so the cracking sound the slap made was shockingly loud. It seemed to stun the ­people in the room more than the word Zack had used.

“How dare you?” Mrs. Farhat demanded, her dark eyes fiery with rage. “How dare you use that word in my house?”

“But it's true,” Zack insisted, his own eyes shining—­not because he was ashamed of himself, I knew, because he was incapable of shame. His tears were a mere physical reaction to the pain his mother had inflicted. “She was going to disgrace our family. She was going to humiliate us all—­especially me. She was going to humiliate me. Can't you see that? Why can't any of you see that?”

The chief of police and chief prosecutor saw something, that's for sure. I know because of the sharp glance they exchanged. Then the chief of police cleared his throat.

“Um, excuse me, son,” he said, with elaborate nonchalance. “Do you happen to remember where you were the night your cousin died?”

“With your wife,” Zack replied with a sneer.

Dr. Farhat buried his face in hands. “Zakaria,” he murmured. “Oh, Zakaria.”

Mrs. Farhat had regained some of her color . . . and her maternal instinct. “My son is a fool, it's true. But there's no proof that he's a murderer.”

“Actually, there is.” Jesse's deep voice was gentle.

And before the boy could resist, Jesse pulled on one of the gold chains around Zack's neck, until the object hanging from it popped out from beneath his shirt collar.

It was a ring. A diamond solitaire on a gold band.

The prosecutor was across the room in a split second flat, holding the ring in his strong fingers.

“This is the engagement ring the Rodgers kid gave to the girl,” he said, to no one in particular. He bent to examine it more closely, even as Zack squirmed to get away. But Jesse held on to him more tightly. “It's got their initials on the band exactly as the boy described.
MR and JA 4EVA
.”

Mark, who'd finally moved away from the French doors toward the center of the room, mouthed the words along with him. Tears plainly glistened in his eyes behind the lenses of his glasses.

“I worked two jobs after school to pay for that ring,” he said. “It cost two thousand dollars. But Jasmin is worth it.” He choked a little. “
Was
worth it. Diamonds are supposed to be forever.”

He broke down, weeping.

“I suppose you have a good explanation as to where you found that ring, kid,” the police chief said, laying hold of Zack's arm and giving Jesse a nod to make it clear that he'd be taking over from here.

“Perhaps your wife gave it to him,” quipped the prosecutor. “While they were in bed together the night of the accident.”

“That would be some feat,” the police chief said. “Seeing as how she was with me, watching the Lakers game.”

“Don't worry, Zakaria,” Mrs. Farhat called, as her son was led away, struggling, by the two men. “We'll get you the best attorney money can buy. Rashid”—­she punched her husband, who was looking dazed, in the arm—­“call your brother.” Glancing at me before she left the room—­almost as an afterthought—­she asked, “Are you really all right?”

Jesse had crossed the room to slide an arm around me. I probably could have stood unaided, but it was nice to have a strong, masculine arm to lean on—­especially one that was attached to such a tall, attractive body.

“I'm fine,” I said, though this was an exaggeration. I was going to be sore tomorrow . . . even sorer than I was now.

Still, she was a nice lady, and she had enough to worry about.

“I'm glad,” she said, and managed a smile that was at once both warm and regretful. “I'm so sorry about . . . about . . . well, about my son. I have another boy—­Zakaria's older brother. He's away at university, like your friend.” She glanced at Jesse, the smile turning into a beam. “We're very proud of him. Only he's studying to be a concert pianist. He's very talented. But Zakaria—­” The smile faded. “Zakaria has always been a worry. And now . . .” The smile disappeared altogether. “Tell me . . . will you be pressing assault charges against my son? I'd understand it if you did. But I'd like . . . well, I'd like to be prepared.”

“No,” I said. “I won't be pressing any charges against your son, Mrs. Farhat.”

She looked relieved . . . but only until I added, “But Mrs. Farhat, I think you do need to prepare for something else. Have you paid for any repairs on your son's truck recently? Has he had the paint touched up, or the bumper replaced? Things like that?”

“His truck . . .” A dark cloud—­darker than any that had loomed outside during the storm—­passed across her face, and I knew that she knew the truth now, beyond a shadow of a doubt. The ring was one thing—­no one would ever be able to prove her son had coldly pulled that ring from Jasmin's finger as she lay dying in the wreckage of Mark's burning vehicle, though I hadn't the slightest doubt that's what had happened. Zack could claim he'd visited the site of the accident later, in his grief over his cousin's death, and found the ring lying on the side of the road.

But the repairs to his truck—­which I'm sure the Farhats had unquestioningly paid for, as they did all their son's bills—­were something else. They would never be able to dispute what those were for. Credit card charges for auto repairs, like diamonds, were forever.

And because of them, Mrs. Farhat would do her duty—­not to her son, but to Jasmin—­and make certain that Zack got what he deserved.

“God help us,” she said. “Yes. Yes, I see. Thank you. I've got to be going now. You can show yourselves out. Have a good evening.”

Then she was gone, leaving Jesse and me behind in her son's broken bedroom . . . with the ghost of the boy he'd killed, and who'd been trying all night to kill him in return.