Sleep With The Lights On (15 page)

Over and over I tried to replay that damn unwanted video clip of the latest victim in his blue T-shirt in my mind, to grab onto a detail or two that I’d missed. But there was nothing. “What kind of car did he get into?” If he told me, it might jog something loose.

Mason shrugged. “The witness said it was a dark blue or dark green or maybe black sedan. Not old but not new, either.”

“Not a motor head, was she?”

“How do you know it was a she?”

“Not old but not new? That’s not a car person.”

“Not all guys are car people.”

I sent him a look, and he shook his head as if he was almost, but not quite, confirming my guess. The waitress came back and asked if we needed anything else, and I asked to have my leftovers boxed up, never taking my focus away from Mason. The guy was going through some shit, that was for sure. And he had been, even before his boss dumped this case on him. And now here I was, telling him details I had no way of knowing. I hoped he was as strong on the inside as he looked on the outside.

He was puzzled right now, uncertain about me, about the case, about how to proceed, and still keeping something inside. I realized that I had a momentary advantage with him and, sensing that was going to be a rare thing, decided to press it. “Is my brother dead, Mason?”

To his credit, he didn’t look away. “I’m pretty sure he is, yeah. I think they probably all are.”

I lowered my head. The waitress came back with my food in a box and a white paper bag. “Chocolate chip cookies, free with every meal this week.”

“Thanks,” I said, but I didn’t look up, because there were hot tears burning my damn eyes.

She walked away, and Mason said, “I’m sorry, Rachel. I know how it feels.”

“I know you do.” I swallowed hard.

“We’ll talk again.”

I nodded, blinking until it felt safe to lift my head. “You’re not gonna keep dodging my calls?”

“Not now. I’ve gotta figure out how you know what you know. And I
will
figure it out. Count on that.”

I pulled a cookie from my bag and handed it to him. “When you do, let me know, okay? Because it’s freaking me out.”

I don’t know if he believed me or not. But he took the cookie and the check, then got up. Lunch was over. My brother was dead. And I was having visions. Accurate ones, apparently. And now I was, if not a suspect—albeit one with a cop for an alibi—at least a person of interest.

I got up, too, and followed him to the door. He held it open, then walked with me to my car, which was parked at the curb in front of the police station, with ten minutes left on the meter. I stopped beside it, fished for my key and unlocked the door while he studied me as if any move I made might be the slip that revealed my guilt. Of what, I didn’t know. He couldn’t think I’d done it. He’d already admitted being with me at the time.

I finally met his eyes. “While you’re investigating me, Detective, take a few minutes to look into your brother’s deep dark secrets.”

His shock was impossible to hide. There was something in his eyes. Just for an instant. Fear, quickly masked. “What does my brother have to do with any of this?” he asked. But there was...something behind his words, and a slight change in his breathing.

“I don’t know. I only know that I didn’t start having these visions until his eyes were in my head. And I promise you, Mason Brown, I’m going to figure out why. So whatever secrets you’re keeping about him won’t be secret for very long.”

He blinked twice, shook his head. “My brother’s life is an open book, Rachel. I don’t have anything to hide, and neither did he.”

I leaned in closer, my face right up near his, and whispered, “There’s a subtle change in your breathing when you’re lying. Did you know that, Mason?”

I didn’t wait for an answer, just got into my car and took off. But I no longer had any doubt. Mason’s brother had known something about the serial killer. Either he was psychic, or he knew the guy, or one of the victims, or...
something
. And whatever it was, Mason knew it, too.

* * *

The rat had emerged into a den with tunnels veering off into many directions. He’d crawled around, exploring them one by one. Most were completely inhospitable to him. Most rejected him with the first of his urges. And one of them—one was out to destroy him. Could see him. Could feel him. The one who had Eric’s eyes.
She
was going to have to go, because she could stop him. She was the only one who could.

But first he’d had to find the right host.

And this, he thought, seemed to be the one. It had already proved itself compatible with his...needs, at least to a degree, and now he would see whether he could continue to control it.

It was a big body, strong, with a brain that wasn’t overly bright and a soul that was a little bit mean. A little bit hungry. Like his own. Mean and hungry enough? That remained to be seen.

He’d taken the victim, offered him a ride and a cup of roofie-laced coffee that had him passed out in the passenger seat within five minutes. And now he was chained up in his host’s basement. But would he be able to follow through? Killing a man was harder than drugging him, chaining him up, even than torturing him.

Already his host was resisting, feeling guilt and pity for the begging, crying, soon-to-be-dying prisoner in the basement. His will was stronger than Eric’s had been.

Oh, but to kill again... To feel the hammer cracking through the skull and sinking deep into the softness of brain matter, to see the delicious fear in those brown eyes just before landing the first blow, and then the pain and tears and horror. And then the light just...blinking out. It was going to be so good. It had been too long. Much too long.

Tonight. He couldn’t wait any longer. His new host lived with a mother, who would be returning home from vacation in the morning. It had to be tonight.

* * *

“Here. These are all I have.” Rosie brought a stack of hardcover books with paper dust jackets into the living room, and set them on the coffee table in front of Mason. Mason had filled him in on his bizarre lunch conversation with Rachel and, knowing Marlayna was a fan, asked to borrow any copies of her books she might have lying around.

Marlayna came in from the kitchen with a brimming cup of coffee and a plate of her “special apple crisp,” and placed them nearby. “Now you make sure I get my books back, Mason. Rachel de Luca is one of my all-time favorite authors.”

“I promise they’ll be safe with me.” He reached for the plate and took a big bite, making sure to “mmm” appreciatively.

“It’s good to see you taking an interest in spiritual things, Mason,” she said, patting his hand. “Sometimes it takes a loss like you’ve had to call us to it.”

“Spiritual? Is that what you’d call what she writes?”

“Yes. But not religious. Just...spiritual. You read it, you’ll see.”

“Thanks, Marlayna. And thanks for this, too.” He took another bite.

“You come around more often and I’ll plump you up. A woman likes a man with some meat on his bones.” She slid her arm around her husband’s ever-widening middle and hugged.

“Damn, woman, not in front of company.” Rosie was grinning, though, and when she turned to leave the two of them to talk shop, he swatted her backside and made her jump and giggle like a teenager.

Mason lowered his head, almost jealous of what they had.

When she was gone, he picked up the book from the top of the stack. “
Being Human: An Owner’s Manual.
Cute.”

“I don’t know why you’re so interested all of a sudden. You said yourself, she couldn’t have done it. She was at your place when the guy got into the car.”

Mason set the book back down and ticked off reasons on his fingers one at a time. “We don’t know for sure that the guy he got into the car with is the guy who killed him. That could have happened later. He might’ve just been catching a ride with a friend.”

“Wallet on the sidewalk, pal. Driver’s license missing. Just like all the others.”

“Could be coincidence.”

“Uh, I don’t think so.” Rosie plucked a book from the middle of the stack, and held it up. The title of the book was
Why There’s No Such Thing as Coincidence.
“Besides, you told me what she’s driving. A yellow T-Bird does not resemble a dark-colored sedan.”

“She knew what the guy was wearing. She knew what time he was taken. She knew the freaking words on his T-shirt. She knew—well, guessed—the witness was female.”

“She said she had a vision,” Rosie countered.

“She could have lied.” Mason finished the dessert, and started on the coffee while Rosie searched his face and shook his head.

“You honestly think a little thing like—” Rosie dropped his voice to a whisper “—a little thing like Rachel de Luca killed all those men? Most of them while she was blind?”

“No. I think this was a copycat crime. And I think she’s looking like the closest thing to a lead.”

“Now where the
hell
did you get that idea, partner? Copycat? Since when?”

Mason shrugged. “Gut feeling.”

Heaving a sigh so big it probably qualified as a gust, Rosie shook his head slowly, sadly. “I’m glad your gut’s talking to you again, my friend. I just wish it was makin’ a little more sense.”

“It will. Give it time. I’d bet my bottom dollar this woman is hiding something. A whole
lot
of something. And I’m gonna find out what.” He drained his cup and set it down, then gathered up the books and headed for the door. He paused with his hand on the knob and turned back. “Marlayna’s into all kinds of new-age, supernatural shit, isn’t she?”

“She calls it woo-woo.”

“She have anything on...” Mason licked his lips, hoping he wasn’t going to give anything away. Then again, Rosie didn’t know de Luca had Eric’s corneas. “On organ transplants?”

“What’s woo-woo about organ transplants?” Rosie looked worried. “Or is this a whole different topic? You thinking about Eric now? About those people he helped with his leftover parts?”

Easy,
Mason told himself.
Just take it easy and go with it.

Marlayna had come back into the living room with a plastic dish of apple crisp for him to take home. If the soft and sympathetic look in her eyes was anything to go by, she’d heard the whole thing. And then she said, “As a matter of fact, I have exactly the book for you.” She handed the apple crisp to Rosie and dashed out of the room, returning seconds later with yet another book.
Cellular Consciousness
by Dr. Raymond Vosberg. She put it on top of the stack in his arms, and Rosie topped it off with the dessert.

“The man’s ahead of the curve in the psychological implications of organ transplantation. And he’s local. Maybe it will give you some comfort,” she said, and blinked back a tear or two.

“I think your theory is dead wrong, partner,” Rosie said. “But you know I got your back either way.”

“I know you do.” Mason looked at his watch. “I gotta go. Dinner with the family tonight, then reading if there’s time.” He looked at the books, knowing he would dig into them tonight, and half dreading what they might tell him about the sexiest, mouthiest, most compelling female he’d met in years. Or ever.

9

I
t was Wednesday night, so like a freaking lemming, I went to my O.R.G. meeting. I swear, if I was in charge, I’d have called it the Organ Recipient Group and Support Meet-up, because it would have made a much cuter acronym. Well, at least a more memorable one. I mean what the hell was their website? Org.org?

I had a couple of reasons for going. Now that I knew Dr. Custer was an expert on the topic, I was hoping to hear more about the phenomenon of organ recipients inheriting memories and tendencies from their donors, and a group setting seemed like a safe place to try angling for that. I also wanted to see David Heart again. Not that I was dying to jump his bones or anything. But the very fact that I didn’t was fascinating to me. Because I should be, right? He was a great-looking guy, we had a major shared experience, and he’d fallen over himself showing his interest in me. Why the hell was I not falling back? It was stupid. I needed a distraction, and a little flirtation was just the ticket.

Far better than being frenemies with the far too perceptive detective.

I smiled at the rhyme. “Perceptive Detective is hot on my trail. I stupidly wish he was after my tail.” I laughed at my own ridiculous fantasies, then spent ten minutes on the floor hugging my dog and feeling guilty for leaving her alone for what would amount to an hour and a half, tops.

I arrived early in hopes of catching the good doctor for a conversation before the crowd arrived. It was chilly tonight, windy and glum. Gray skies of autumn, thick as oatmeal. The lights were on inside, though, and a couple of cars were already there: a beige sedan and a black Audi TT with M.D. plates.

Good. Custer was already here. And who else?

I went inside, pleased that Dr. Vosberg had apparently arrived early tonight.

“...seems more intense to me now, Doc. More important. Like I’m suddenly aware of how limited our time on this planet is and every single second has taken on this urgency and—”

I cleared my throat, because David Heart and Dr. Vosberg were clearly in deep and important conversation and I didn’t want to appear to be eavesdropping. They both looked my way. Doc looked irritated, but David smiled so warmly I couldn’t help but notice. Nice face. Nice eyes. Blue. So what if he drove a beige sedan?

“You came back.” He said it the same way a kid says, “It’s Christmas!” and came to grab my hands. I figured that was an impulse move. I knew it was an honest one. “I’m really glad.”

“Me, too.” Could I have poured any more saccharine into two words?

“Dr. V and I were just—”

“Hey, no,” I said, holding up both hands. “You don’t need to explain to me.”

“But I want to.” He smiled again. “Maybe...after group we could go out for coffee and dessert?”

“I’d like that.”

Would I really? Probably not. I
should
like that, that was the thing. So I was going to try. It wasn’t as if I was going to be able to capture Custer for a “casual” conversation about his theories. I’d seen how everyone crowded around him after the meeting last week, so I’d just have to hope for a chance next time.

The meeting went by all too fast. David had parked himself in the chair right next to mine, and was hanging on my every word. It was clear to me that everyone in the group knew who I was. I’d been sure last week that Emily, at least, had recognized me. This week they all had that look about them, but true to the group’s policy of anonymity, no one mentioned it.

When it was my turn to speak, I brought up having bad dreams since the transplant, though without giving details of course. I didn’t mention that I apparently did ride-alongs with a phantom who was bashing in heads during those dreams. Or that I thought he might be a real killer. Who’d also murdered my brother. Because the other group members wouldn’t have believed me, and the good doctor would probably have ordered me up a straitjacket if I had. Sure, he theorized you could pick up tastes and tendencies and habits from your donor. But I was pretty sure having a serial killer inside my head would have seemed crazy even to him.

Terry Skullbones talked a lot about feeling like someone else was rattling around inside his head sometimes. Emily did, too. She was showboating. She wanted it to be true, because she was clearly one of those types who watched
Celebrity Ghost Stories
and
The Haunted.
She craved a real live paranormal experience so much that she was willing to convince herself she was having one. Terry wasn’t being honest, either, but I got the feeling he was erring the other way. Downplaying something he wasn’t ready to share fully—sort of like I was doing. David didn’t talk at all at this meeting.

Saving it all for me over coffee? God, I hope not.

Knock it off. You want to go out with him, remember?

No. I want to want to. But I don’t
really
want to. Clear as mud.

I’d read Dr. Vosberg’s book until three in the morning, and I wanted to ask him some questions about it, but I’d come to the conclusion that group wasn’t the place. Some of these folks seemed a little wobbly on the old mental balance beam, and I didn’t want to shake it. I mean, if he wanted to push his book to the group, he would have copies on a table at the meetings. No, I got the feeling this group of his was more about researching his own theories. Brilliant, really.

So the meeting broke up, and I hadn’t really gotten any further intel that I considered reliable. I followed David’s beige sedan to Aiello’s, the best restaurant in town. Granted, there were only five others to compare it to, including a McDonald’s, a Subway, and the very recently—and much to my delight—opened Dunkin’ Donuts, but still, it really was good. We ordered coffee and a great big homemade brownie with two forks. His idea. I would have gladly eaten the entire brownie myself.

“I’m really sorry about walking in on you and Dr. V,” I said, after three consecutive bites, just to get a jump on the lion’s share. “I didn’t know whether to back out quietly or let you know I was there.”

“It was fine, we were finished. He gives private sessions before the weekly meeting at no charge. First come, first served, and it’s only a half hour. But he does one a week.”

“I didn’t know that.”

He nodded. “I got there before Terry for a change. Lucky break.”

I nodded, took another bite. He was eating slowly, and I thought it was because he was being generous. Another point in his favor, right? “So you’re having trouble since your transplant?”

He shrugged. “I just seem to be more...emotional, I guess.”

“In a good way or a bad one?”

“Both. Everything feels bigger. Deeper.”

I nodded. “Well, it
was
a heart transplant, after all.”

“Yeah.” He sipped his coffee, nodding at my fork to tell me to go for broke on the remaining brownie.

“Do you know anything about your donor?”

“No. I don’t think I want to.”

“Really? I was dying to know about mine.” I shook my head. “Gosh, as much trouble as I’ve had since a simple tissue graft, I can’t even imagine what you must be feeling after something as big as a heart transplant.”

He shrugged. “You’ve been having trouble? I mean, I know you said you’d had some odd dreams. Is it more than that?”

I drew a deep breath, looked around the restaurant and lowered my voice. “Can I trust you, David? Because the truth is, I’m dying to talk to someone about this, someone who would understand. Someone who’s been through it.”

He nodded and set his cup down, then focused on my eyes like nobody’s business. “I promise.”

I really did want to get his thoughts on this whole thing. “I think my donor might have been a psychic. I think he might even have helped the police solve crimes or something. But they won’t admit it, of course.”

He frowned at me, not in disbelief but in rapt interest. “What makes you think so?”

Okay, deep breath, spill it. Not too much, but a little. See if he freaks. “I’ve seen some crimes in my dreams. And at least one of them really happened, either during my vision or right after. I’ve verified it. And it scares the hell out of me.”

“Well, damn. Who was your donor?”

“Brother of a cop,” I blurted. It felt good to get it off my chest. “And the thing is, I think the cop knows his brother had this thing going on, but he won’t admit it.”

“Of course not.”

“Look, keep this between us, okay?”

“I promise, hon. I won’t breathe a word.”

“Thanks.” Wait a minute, did he just call me
hon?

He reached across the table, covered my hand with his. “For the record, I don’t think you’re crazy.”

That, at least, was good to know. “It helps to hear that.” I ate the last bite of brownie, followed by the last of my coffee.

“You should get away from it all. That’s what I do when I’m stressed out. Go camping in the mountains up north. I could take you.”

“I....think it might be a little too soon for that.”

He shrugged. “Well, maybe you should schedule a session with Dr. V. He’s a really great listener.”

I shrugged. “I intend to. But I kind of think it might be even more valuable to talk to people like you. You know, other people who’ve had transplants.”

He leaned across the table. “Rumor has it, he has.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Well, he won’t talk about it. It’s one of the topics that’s off-limits. His personal life isn’t supposed to enter into our group meetings. I figure he’ll open up after a while. We’ve only been having the group sessions for a couple of months now. Still, everybody speculates. Someone thought it was a kidney, someone else said skin grafts after a fire.”

“And someone else probably thinks it’s a convenient rumor he started to help him sell books.”

He smiled ear to ear when I said that. “Most of the group don’t even know he has a book out. But I think that’s a really smart theory. I never even thought of that. What made you come up with it?”

I shrugged.
Because
it’s what I’d do.
But I wasn’t going to tell him I was that mercenary. I looked at the empty plate, resisted poking around for crumbs and said, “I guess we should probably get going, huh? Myrtle’s been home alone a lot longer than I’d planned to leave her.”

“And where is home, Rachel?”

I looked up, and my expression apparently revealed my reluctance to tell him that, because he smiled and patted my hand.

“How about just a phone number? For now, I mean.”

I nodded.

He got out his cell phone and started typing while saying “Ra-chel-cor-neas. Okay, shoot.”

I gave him the number. He keyed it in, nodded once and pocketed his phone. “Great.” The waitress brought the check, and he handed her his card before she could scoot away. Then he said, “I hope we can do this again. Maybe a whole dinner next time?”

There was absolutely no reason not to say yes. So I said, “Sure, I’d like that.”

And even before the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to take them back. Who was I kidding? This wasn’t going anywhere. Nice guys were apparently not the sighted Rachel de Luca’s cup of tea. She preferred dark moody cops with secrets behind their eyes and dead psychic brothers. It was a pain in the freaking ass.

* * *

Angela Brown lived in a large and lush home in comparison to the others in her neighborhood. It was, she’d often told Mason, a classic Georgian. He’d never cared enough to find out what that meant. But it was big and square and brick, three stories, not counting the basement, the topmost of which had been his father’s personal space and hadn’t been touched since he’d passed.

His own childhood bedroom was similarly enshrined, and so was Eric’s. Nothing had been touched since Eric had left home to marry Marie Rivette right out of high school. Wednesday nights were their traditional family dinners. Once a week, no matter what. So far, Marie was still honoring that tradition.

Pork loin with pineapple glaze, baby red potatoes cooked with carrots and bathed in butter, homemade applesauce, undercooked just enough so that tiny chunks of apple remained, just the way Eric had always liked it best.

They sat around the formal dining room table, the boys on one side and their mother on the other, beside the empty chair that had belonged to their dad. It was painful to see that every week, but Mason didn’t know what to do about it. His mother seated everyone the same way, week in and week out, until forced to make room for a new family member. He used to sit right where Josh was sitting now. When his father died, Mason was promoted to the head of the table and Jeremy sat alone across from his parents until Josh came along. Now Mason mused on whether Angela would put the new baby beside Marie, sticking a high chair in Eric’s former place, or whether she would move Jeremy to that spot and put the baby beside Josh. Probably the latter.

Josh hadn’t shut up since they’d sat down, and it was a good thing, because everyone else was as silent as a thick fog. He’d talked about his new sixth-grade teacher, his tae kwon do lessons, his Halloween costume— Captain America—and the about-to-be released must-have video game he was hoping to wheedle his mom into buying for him.