Something Wicked (20 page)

“N
ine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“There's a woman in a Ford Escape who's gone off the road just over the summit on Highway Twenty-Six. Toward us, the ocean side, west side, of the summit.” Hale felt a pulse in his head beating out a tattoo of fear. “She needs help.”

“Sir, what is your name?”

“Hale St. Cloud. Her name . . . the woman in the car is Savannah Dunbar, and she's pregnant. Very pregnant.”

“Is she in labor?”

“Yes, she's having contractions! She's unable to move!

She's
stuck
!” He thought of Savannah trapped in her car and the cold and the contractions. He thought of his unborn son. . . . What if there were complications? Trauma?

“You're saying you can't pinpoint the location. Does she have a cell phone?”

“Yes, but it just went dead. Can you just send someone out that way?” he demanded impatiently.

“The roads have been closed—”

“I know, damn it. What the hell does that mean?”

“Mr. St. Cloud, we have many emergencies. I'm sending the message, and they'll get to her as soon as they can. But if she could call and we could get a better idea as to where she is? You understand that would help?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“We'll send EMTs as soon as we can.”

The dubiousness of the operator's voice made Hale want to slam his fist into a wall. He assured the operator, who asked him more questions, that he would keep trying to reach Savannah, and then he hung up, feeling utterly useless and frustrated.

Wanting to jump from his skin, he stalked back to the waiting room outside the operating rooms. He thought of his wife fighting for her life, but as safe as she could be, in a doctor's care. But Savannah and the baby . . . He lasted exactly six minutes. Then he strode to the nearest nurses' hub and said loudly, “I need to give someone my cell number. I've got to go. My wife's in surgery, but I've got another emergency.”

One of the nurses got up from the chair she'd been sitting in and eyed him thoughtfully. Reaching under the counter, she pulled out a notepad on a clipboard. “Write it down here. Which surgeon is she with?”

“Dr. Oberon.” Hale scratched down his cell. He had the prickling feeling that they didn't believe him. That his actions somehow made him seem guilty. Or was that just because Mills had mentioned the words
crime scene
?

He was gone before they could ask more questions. He couldn't do anything more for Kristina other than wring his hands.

But he could help Savvy. She needed help. Definitely needed help, and he didn't trust that dispatched EMTs were on the way, no matter what the 9-1-1 operator had said.
Bullshit.

For a moment he stared through the window, hands balled by his sides. He could do nothing for Kristina. She was in surgery; she was in the best hands she could be. And his unborn son and his sister-in-law were in immediate danger. There was no contest.

He strode through the doors into a blistering, screaming wind. Ducking his head, he pulled out his cell and looked at it, certain he was going to see
NO SERVICE
. But there was a signal. Feeble at best. Immediately he tried Savannah again, but the call went to voice mail. He started to put the cell back in his pocket, picking up his pace to a jog, cold fingers of wind slipping under his collar and down his back, when the thing rang in his hand.

He glanced down in relief, but it wasn't Savannah. Punching the button, he said tersely, “Hi, Declan.” His feet nearly slid out from under him, and he caught himself and slowed his step.

“Son, where are ya?” His grandfather's voice sounded high and reedy.

“I'm heading home,” Hale lied without a qualm. He didn't need his grandfather involved in his problems. “You okay?”

“Yes . . . yes . . . I just thought I saw someone.”

“At the house?” Hale glanced around at the stinging ice crystals swirling in the sodium vapor lights outside the hospital.

“Musta dreamed it. Sorry.” He sounded embarrassed. “Call me when you're home.”

“Want me to get someone to come to your place?” Who, he had no idea.

“No, no. Just an old man's silliness. Call me.”

“Will do.”

He was relieved he didn't have to attend to his grandfather, who, though his mind shied from the idea, seemed to be slipping a little mentally these days. Or maybe he was just overly tired. No sense borrowing trouble. Hale had enough of that as it was.

His black TrailBlazer was white, covered in an inch of snow. He opened the back and pulled out his chains and a small rolled-up rug. Flipping down the rug, he knelt on it and then wrapped the chain around the first rear tire and snapped it together. Snap-on. Like Savannah's. He did the same to the other rear tire, shook out the wet rug, and tossed it in the back. He was backing out of his parking spot and heading down the long entrance lane to the hospital within a minute. The normally gnarled, wind-blasted trees that lined it were now covered in snow, their mangled limbs softened by the white powder, strangely serene in this frantic night.

He drove intently, forcing himself to stay under control, feeling anxiety buzzing beneath his skin. By his reckoning he was at least forty minutes out. Maybe more. Probably more. But he was going to get there.

 

 

Savvy worked herself around, fighting for the driver's door handle. Tightening her fingers around the handle, she pressed it down and tried to shove the door upward. Were she her old limber self, she would pull out a leg and push it open, but in her current state she had to push with her hand. The door opened easily enough, but she couldn't get enough power to push it straight up. It snapped back down twice before she gave up.

And the wind was shrieking and shoving snow inside so fast, she was damp by just opening the door a crack. But at least the door would open; the SUV wasn't torqued too badly. Thank God for small favors.

She was still sprawled across the two front bucket seats. She wondered if she should try to resecure herself with the seat belt. Would that be better or worse? Worse probably. If...

The next contraction hit harder, pain ripping through her abdomen. Savannah closed her eyes and panted, counting, waiting it out. It didn't seem to be longer, but it sure as hell seemed stronger.

When it was over, she thought about the baby and about Hale and her sister. Kristina. But again she pushed thoughts of her aside, almost furiously. Couldn't think about Kristina. Not now. Later. After the EMTs got to her. The ones Hale had called through 9-1-1. He said he was going to call. He would. And they would get here.

The Escape's engine was still on, charging the headlights, two dim yellow lines that illuminated the snow-laden fir boughs beyond. Savvy switched it off but left the lights on. She would turn the engine over after a bit. Didn't want to lose the battery. She lay still, and then another contraction took her over, squeezing her, leaving her breathless and shaking. Too close after the last one. Too close.

Sucking air between her teeth, Savvy lay still, listening to her own galloping heart.

There was no denying it. This baby was coming.

Soon.

 

 

Outside the window, the snow was coming down as hard as Charlie had ever seen it. He watched pensively, his thoughts running along twisting pathways. He'd made mistakes, several that needed immediate attention. The loose ends were unraveling faster and faster, and inside he was starting to feel that same old anxious feeling that meant it was time to take care of business and move on.

He'd seen that woman, that
detective
, today. Something had to be done about her. A pleasurable something, no doubt, but if he did something soon, his cover would be blown and they would start searching for him. He wasn't ready for that yet. There was too much to do. Those women at Siren Song . . .

And what the fuck had he been thinking, talking to that ass DeWitt?
Dimwit! Damn! Fuck!
He wanted to kick something, he was so angry at himself. He'd been bragging to the dense moron, that's what. Letting the bastard know that he, Charlie, could score with anyone he chose.
Anyone!
Women
wanted
him . . . practically spun themselves into a sexual frenzy if he so much as
looked
at them. Could Dimwit even conceive of that? No. He just sat night after night at one bar or another and drank himself stupid.

Now Charlie tamped down his growing anxiety and rage with an effort. This was not the time to drop his mask and let anyone see what was underneath. Too dangerous.

But Dimwit . . . God . . .

Charlie ground his teeth together in remembrance. He'd made some serious mistakes, which had to be corrected once and for all. He'd foolishly told Dimwit all those things because the fucker had seen him banging Kristina up against a wall at the Donatellas' Spanish Colonial. Charlie had caught a glimpse of the man's vehicle as he was tearing away from Bankruptcy Bluff, and he'd known he would have to do something.

A couple of nights later he'd followed him to a bar just down the road from Deception Bay, a local dive called Davy Jones's Locker. He should have killed him right then and there. But did he do that?
Did he?
Hell, no. Instead he'd
crowed
to the stupid ass about all his sexual conquests. Not just about Kristina! About
all
of them, including Chandra Donatella, who was the reason he'd chosen the Bankruptcy Bluff venue in the first place.

He'd even told the miserable little shit about his alter ego: Good Time Charlie.

Well, now he was going to have to do something about Dimwit tout de suite. And there were more developing problems: that fucker had been way too eager to talk to the sweet female detective. And then, of course, that sweet detective herself.

All three of them had to die.

He realized how close he was to being discovered, and a part of him was both angry and appalled that he'd been so careless. But another part looked forward to the killing that was to come.... He could get a hard-on just thinking about it.

“Hey,” the woman called from the bed, miffed that he wasn't paying attention to her. His date. The one he'd been so eager to be with just hours earlier. The one he wanted to escape from now.

He'd been standing by the window, naked, lost in thought, watching the snow. Now, as he turned toward her, she patted the sheets, inviting him back in.

But he didn't want to have sex with her again. He damn well never wanted to see her again. After he had a woman, he didn't want to go back for seconds unless there was a way to up the ante. Before his first kill, he'd tried anything that was a little more dangerous. Sex in a public place. Sex somewhere precarious, like that time at the construction site. All those Bancroft Development employees around . . . and he'd just silently laughed at them while he was screwing Kristina behind their backs. He knew them all and what they were about. Kristina had helped him know them, and though she didn't understand his obsessive interest in any and all things Bancroft, whenever she'd asked too many questions, he'd distracted her with sex. She was so
easy
to control. He just waggled his finger and she was practically writhing on the ground for him. Some of the women were more of a challenge even with his sexual power, but not Kristina. She was always hot and wet and throbbing like a goddamn pulse, although afterward she cried about not being herself, not wanting him, acting like he'd put her under some kind of spell. Jesus. She was just weak, that was all.

Why hadn't she
just died
?

“Hey,” she called again from the bed, her voice more strident.

Charlie put a smile on his face. It wouldn't do to let her see his real self. But he'd made a mistake in choosing her. He'd thought she might satisfy him in all the ways he loved, but she'd been a cheap distraction at best. Tonight she hadn't even shrieked, and the way she looked at him sometimes made him wonder if her earlier enthusiasm had all been a fake. Yes, he could get her to respond, but it wasn't with the same energy as Kristina.

Kristina. It was a fucking shame she'd chosen a coma instead of death: hanging on, thwarting him, laughing at him, making certain he couldn't watch her die.

“Hey!” his date called again, truly irked.

Charlie boiled up with sudden rage. He wanted to slit her throat and watch her gurgle and flail while the light died out of her eyes, but he couldn't yet. Too dangerous. Too many people might remember seeing them together. She didn't have as much to lose as Kristina, so she'd met him at public places. For now he had to play it safe. He would take care of her later, when she was way, way back in his rearview mirror.

He rejoined her in bed, though he didn't want to. All part of the act. But when she kittenishly reached over and grabbed his dick, he felt a wave of revulsion. Too much of this kittenish shit. He wanted a woman who'd go the distance.

Closing his eyes, he strolled back through his memory, searching for a kill that could get him humming, settling on those last moments with his mother, his real mother. He recalled the sensual feel of the knife sinking into her flesh. She'd fought him good, but he'd won easily, overpowering her with his physical strength. His dick stirred at the memory, and his date giggled and thought it was her doing.

Giggling.
God, he wanted to squeeze the life from her. Maybe . . . maybe . . .

No.