Smoke in Mirrors (25 page)

“May have been the apple pie,” he said. He picked up a screwdriver. “Deke loves the stuff. Especially with ice cream. The lasagna was terrific, too, by the way.”

“Glad you enjoyed it.”

“Haven’t had homemade lasagna that good in years.” He jiggled the lever delicately a bit to reseat it. “Mostly I buy the frozen kind when I get a hankering for it.”

She folded her arms and propped one shoulder against the door jamb. “I have to tell you, I got a little worried there when you mentioned that Bethany wasn’t exactly the nurturing type. I wasn’t sure how Deke would react.”

“Neither was I,” he admitted. “But sometimes I get fed up listening to him talk about her as if she was a saint.”

“I also got the feeling that his rush to defend her memory tonight came more from habit than unresolved grief.”

“He’s changing. Moving forward, I think.” He went down on one knee, reached into the open cabinet and turned on the valves that controlled the water supply. “I just hope that he doesn’t slide backward again if we don’t get some final answers.”

“I don’t think that will happen. He’s starting to focus on Cassie. That’s a big step.”

“Yeah.” He got back to his feet and turned on the faucet. There was some sputtering and coughing, but the old pipes were sturdy. After a moment water flowed steadily. “You really think this old math department secretary will be able to tell us anything useful?”

“Who knows? Worth a try.”

“If you say so.” He shut off the water.

They both gazed steadily at the faucet for a time. No drips.

“My,” Leonora said in tones of near-reverent awe. “You are good. You are
extraordinary
.”

“What can I say? It’s a gift.”

She smiled at him in the mirror. “I believe it.”

He looked at her reflected image. There was a graceful, seductive curve to her body as she lounged there in the doorway behind him. Her eyes were warm and deep and mysterious.

“Got anything else that needs adjusting?” he asked.

“Now that you mention it, I believe I do have another home improvement project that could benefit from an expert application of your tools.”

He twirled the gleaming adjustable wrench with the practiced skill of an Old West gunfighter. “Lead me to it.”

“This way.”

She turned and drew him down the hall into the shadows of the bedroom.

An hour and
a half later he went out onto her front porch and inhaled the chilled, damp night. Another wave of fog had crept up off the dark waters of the Sound, shrouding
the footpath. The low lamps spaced at intervals along the route glowed dimly.

He looked at Leonora, who stood on the threshold. She was draped in a thick robe, her hair loose and tumbled around her face. She was squinting ever so slightly. She had left her glasses on the nightstand.

“Good night.” She kissed him on the mouth.

“Night.”

He kissed her back, not lightly, the way she had kissed him. He wanted to leave an impression. Give her something to think about when she got back into the warm, mussed bed that he had just vacated.

“Good party?” the
stranger asked.

Brett Conway staggered to a halt and tried to focus. The guy had freaked him out, materializing out of the fog and the darkness like that. He hadn’t heard anyone else on the footpath.

The stranger looked weird. He was dressed in black and he had a ski mask on over his face. It was cold, Brett thought, but not that cold.

“Party was okay,” Brett muttered.

It had been a good party. Plenty of booze and some pot. But none of the girls had shown any interest in him. Just as well. He was feeling a little sick. Wouldn’t take much to make him hurl straight into the cove.

“You don’t look so good,” the stranger said.

“Too much beer. I’ll be okay.”

“I’ve got something that will make you feel a lot better in a hurry.” The stranger held out his gloved hand, palm up. “Try it. You’ll like it.”

Brett looked at the little package. “What is it?”

“Smoke and Mirrors.”

A thrill shot through him. He forgot about his uneasy stomach. “No shit? The real thing?”

“The real thing.”

“Heard the rumors. But no one I know has been able to get any.”

“Be the first on your block.”

Wariness returned. “How much? I haven’t got more than twenty or thirty bucks on me.”

“Free.”

Now he knew there was a catch. “I don’t believe it.”

“Well, there is one little favor I’d like you to do for me,” the stranger said.

“What favor?”

“Swallow this and then we’ll discuss it.”

Brett hesitated. But it was just too easy. He could already hear himself telling his friends about this tomorrow.
You’ll never believe it. Met a guy on the footpath last night. Gave me S and M. The real stuff. For free.

He swallowed the powder. It tasted bitter.

“About that favor,” the stranger said.

“What?” Brett squinted through the fog, trying to get a better look at the stranger’s eyes. Something weird about those eyes.

“You’re going to kill a monster for me.”

“You’re crazy, man.” Brett chuckled. He was feeling better already. Kind of excited. “No monsters around here.”

“You’re wrong. There’s one coming along the path right now. He’ll be on the footbridge in a few minutes.” The stranger handed him a long object that was weighted at the end. “Take this. You’ll need it.”

Brett looked down at the golf club the stranger had put in his hand. “Huh?”

Something was really wrong here. He wanted to ask
some more questions. But the hallucinations started in and he saw the monster in the fog.

Some of the
heavy satisfaction that had come over Thomas after the truly memorable sex started to fade. In its place he felt the familiar stirring sensation. Maybe that deliberately provocative good-night kiss hadn’t been such a good idea. He was going to be the one who spent the night thinking deeply unsettling thoughts.

The sound of a jogger’s footfalls behind him warned him that there were still a few diehards out ruining their knees, even at this late hour. He moved to the edge of the path, giving the runner plenty of room.

The echo of the pounding steps got louder. A moment later a young man galloped past. A nearby lamp gleamed briefly on his running shoes and lower legs. The rest of his body was in darkness.

Thomas wondered if he should warn the kid that if he kept up the running his knees would probably be shot by the time he was forty. He decided not to mention it. Why give the competition an edge? Things were tough enough at forty. Besides, young guys didn’t want to hear about bad knees. They planned on living forever and being in great shape the whole time.

The young man vanished into the night. The sound of his footfalls faded into nothingness. Silence flowed back, swirling together with the fog.

He reached the footbridge and started across. From here he could see his own porch light in the trees on the hillside. Wrench would be waiting up for him. Nice to know your dog was always there for you.

Footfalls sounded behind him. Another jogger, one who had decided to cheat and take the shortcut to the other side of the cove. The
thud-thud
s were heavier, not
quite in sync, as if the guy was struggling to keep the rhythm going. Maybe his knees hurt.

Thomas became aware of the runner’s heavy breathing. He could hear audible gulps of air. As he listened, the pattern of the footfalls altered. They were more closely spaced. Picking up speed.

Closing the distance.

Don’t look back. Something may be gaining on you.

The
thuds
were coming very swiftly now. The runner was really sucking air, preparing for an even greater burst of speed. Working himself up for a major push. This guy sounded as if he was calling on all of his resources to make it past an invisible finish line.

The runner was almost upon him.

The hell with it. The only thing worse than looking nervous was looking like a victim.

Thomas stopped, turned and stepped back toward the rail, giving the runner plenty of room. He kept his right hand in the pocket of his jacket. His fingers tightened around the handle of the wrench.

A dark shadow exploded out of the fog. There was something wrong with his posture. Both arms were raised in an unnatural manner. He clutched a long object.

The runner grunted, an incoherent cry, and swung the object downward the way a butcher swings a cleaver.

Thomas yanked the wrench out of his pocket. He raised it, simultaneously shifting sideways along the railing.

The runner’s club struck the wrench instead of Thomas’s head. The jarring impact sent shudders through the wooden span beneath Thomas’s feet.

The runner, propelled by his own momentum, kept going for a few paces before pulling up abruptly. He spun around, sucked in more air and started back toward his target at full speed.

The broad head at the end of the long object in the man’s hand glinted briefly in the low light.

A golf club.

Even as he identified the assault weapon, Thomas threw himself forward, wrench raised again to block the club. The move was reflexive. He did not have much choice in the matter of tactics. Ducking back out of the way was not on his list of available options. He would end up trapped against the guardrail.

Wrench and club shaft collided a second time. More shock waves jolted through Thomas and the footbridge. The attacker howled and reeled back against the rail.

The club flew from his hand and spun away into the darkness below the bridge.

Thomas grabbed the opportunity and moved in fast. He drove one shoulder into the other man’s midsection, taking both of them down. They hit the wooden planks and rolled, coming up hard against a post. Thomas lost his grip on the wrench. It clattered on the boards.

He wasted no time trying to find his tool. He was too busy dealing with the man beneath him. His assailant had gone from murderous rage to what seemed to be sheer panic.

The runner punched and thrashed wildly, screaming in fear.

“Let me go.
No. No.
Don’t touch me.
Let me go
.”

His fist connected with the side of Thomas’s face, then slammed into his ribs. The blows were frantic and wild.

Cold fury flashed through Thomas, adding more raw chemicals to the potent brew swirling through his bloodstream.

He struck back, his hand chopping into the soft flesh of an abdomen. He heard the runner’s gasp of pain.

“Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me.”

The runner flailed, but he was clearly weakening rapidly.

“Please, please, please. Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me.”

The runner put his hands up, as if to shield his head.

Thomas realized the guy was sobbing hysterically.

“Please, don’t hurt me.”

Thomas got warily to his feet and reached for his cell phone.

He was in luck. It was still in his pocket and it had survived the fight. A tribute to modern technology.

He stood with
Ed Stovall in the lobby of the Wing Cove Community Hospital. Ed was in full uniform, crisp and pressed. You’d never know he’d been awakened from a sound sleep to answer the 911 call.

“Juiced up and high as a bird on some kind of crap.” Ed snapped his notebook shut and stuck it into his pocket. “Probably that new hallucinogen. S and M. The doc in the E.R. said the kid’s on one very bad drug trip. Seeing things that aren’t there. Keeps screaming about the monster on the footbridge.”

“That would be me,” Thomas said.

“Apparently he decided you were a fiend in human form. He was convinced that he had to destroy you. Guess the idea was to toss you over the rail into the cove.”

“Might have worked. Especially if that golf club had connected with my head first.”

“The medics said I probably won’t be able to get any more out of him until tomorrow at the earliest. Assuming he even remembers what happened.”

“Got an ID?”

“His name’s Brett Conway. He’s a junior at Eubanks. He went out drinking with some friends earlier this evening. They ended up at a private party. He left on his own. Told his buddies that he was going to walk back to
his apartment. That’s the last anyone saw of him until he decided to go after you.”

“What about the golf club?” Thomas said.

“Eubanks fields a golf team. Brett Conway is on it.”

“What happens now?” Thomas asked.

Ed looked grim. “Now I get to call Conway’s parents and tell them their boy has gotten into trouble with drugs.”

“Don’t envy you,” Thomas said.

“Yeah, I really hate this part of the job.”

Someone was leaning
on her doorbell. She glanced blearily at the clock. Three A.M. Not good.

A chill went through Leonora. It was her own fault that she was here alone. Thomas had made it clear earlier that he would have been quite happy to spend the night. But she had not invited him to do so. She had told herself that she needed to maintain some emotional distance in this relationship. Things were precarious enough as it was.

She pushed aside the covers and groped for her glasses on the nightstand. She found them, got them on and then rose and pulled on her robe.

She went down the hall and looked across the darkened living room to the door.

The bell continued to chime relentlessly.

She tied the bathrobe more securely around her waist, picked up her cell phone so that she could dial 911 instantly if necessary, and made her way through the shadow-drenched living room to the door.

She flipped on the porch light and peered through the peephole. Relief swept through her when she saw Thomas on the doorstep.

Then she saw the dark stains on his shirt.

“Oh, my God.” She wrenched open the door. “
Thomas.
Is that blood on your shirt?”

He looked down, face twisting with irritation. “Bastard. Cut my lip. This was a new shirt.”

“What happened? Are you all right?” Stupid question. He was very clearly not all right.