Still Lake (17 page)

She noticed, but she didn't pull away. “Are you a cop?” she asked.

“No.”

“Are you a writer? Reporter?”

“No.” Her hand was growing warm in his grip, and she bit her lip. He was going to have to kiss her.

“Then what are you?”

“Extremely turned on.” And he pulled her across the seat, onto his lap.

She struggled only for a minute, long enough to feel his erection beneath her, long enough to make him hornier than ever. And then she stilled, looking at him out of those huge, wary eyes.

“Sorry,” he said, absolutely unrepentant. “I can't resist.” He slid his hand behind her neck, beneath her wet, tangled hair, and brought her mouth to his.

He half expected another argument. A struggle of some sort. Again, a surprise. She made that soft, hungry sound that had already emblazoned itself in his senses, she put her hands on his shoulders, and she kissed him back, her tongue sliding against his.

His reaction was immediate. He pulled her tighter against him, sliding his other hand up under the baggy sweatshirt to cover her breast. Why the hell
had he suggested she wear an extra layer of clothing, when all he wanted to do was pull it off?

He could feel her heart thudding beneath his hand, and he knew it wasn't fear—it was plain, simple desire. He turned her in his arms, his mouth never leaving hers, until she was sitting astride him on the bench seat, pressing against him, and he wondered whether he could talk her into doing it this way for her second try at sex.

He broke the kiss, moving his mouth down the side of her neck as he reached underneath her full skirt to touch her.

She let out a quiet little squeak, and pushed against him for a breathless, agonizingly wonderful moment, and he wanted to make her come that way, first, before he unfastened his jeans and pushed inside her. If he could hold out that long. He couldn't ever remember wanting a woman so damn much—he was practically out of control, and his hands were shaking as his fingers slid beneath her panties.

She was wet. The feel of her against his hand, her soft neck beneath his mouth, the movement of her hips against him, the soft whimpering noises she made just before she exploded in a little shimmer of climax that made him almost desperate to join her.

He reached down for his zipper, fumbling, but Sophie came back to her senses with a thud, and she scrambled off him with a choked sound of horror. A moment later she'd practically fallen out the door,
and the last he saw of her she was running up the hill to the kitchen door. It slammed shut behind her.

He swore. Slowly, carefully, with as much vibrant obscenity as he could possibly come up with. He really needed to punch something, but there was nothing but the burled walnut dashboard, and he had his priorities straight.

He sat back and looked at the building through the driving rain. The dark, deserted wing stretched out behind the cozy inn—bleak, deserted, keeping its secrets. Now was as good a time as any—Sophie would be too upset to even notice where he'd gone.

But he'd left his flashlight back at the house. And he didn't feel like scrambling through the debris and mud to stand in a place that might have seen violent death. Not tonight.

Tonight he was going home to jerk off, thinking of Sophie's soft, sweet thighs.

That, or he'd punch something. Either one seemed a good release. The best he was going to hope for, on a long, frustrating night like this.

S
ophie sat on the glider the next morning, legs curled underneath her, nursing a mug of coffee, as she watched the mist rise from the lake. Grace was up already—she was moving around her room, humming an off-key little tune. That was something new—Grace had always had perfect pitch. But as her illness had progressed, her tone had deteriorated, and it was hard to even guess what she was humming. It sounded a bit like Cole Porter crossed with Marty's Limp Bizkit, but if there was a hidden meaning to her tuneless little song there was no way Sophie could figure it out.

She didn't particularly want to. She had enough on her mind, not the least of which was wondering what the hell she was going to do about her car, her sister, her mother, her neighbor, her new business, her overdue column, the cut on her head and the miserable headache that even the strongest painkillers couldn't dispel. How had things gotten so out of control in a matter of days? With no warning? Four days ago she had never heard of John Smith. Now suddenly she'd been having wild sex with a total
stranger, and she would have done it again last night in the front seat of his car if she hadn't come to her senses. Damn it.

She looked down at the Whitten cottage, its roof barely visible through the tall trees. She was tempted to walk down to the water's edge where she could get a clear look at it, but she stayed where she was, showing a rare bit of sense for a change. A plume of smoke was rising on the cool morning air, and she could smell the cozy scent of wood fire. She really did belong in the country, she thought, taking another sip of her strong coffee. Her two favorite smells in the world were wood smoke and fresh-cut grass. Coffee came in at third place, followed by fresh-baked bread. Both of those could be replicated in the city, but nothing smelled like the cool lake water on a morning in late August.

She thought of going for a swim. The water would be cold and refreshing, and it would wipe out the shadows that haunted her, at least for a short while.

It would also freeze her ass off, which in theory was a good idea but in practice sounded extremely unpleasant. Still Lake was a particularly pristine lake, but there were all sorts of organisms in it, and she was better off keeping her lacerated head out of water.

She probably should have had a couple of stitches. If she'd had the nerve to wake up Doc then she wouldn't have driven off the road, wouldn't
have had another run-in with John Smith, wouldn't be feeling restless and anxious. Wouldn't be tempted to walk down the driveway to check out her car and maybe run into her neighbor, and this time maybe she wouldn't run away, and then…

She heard the sound of a car coming up her driveway, and she felt a momentary clenching in her stomach. One that dissipated when she realized it wasn't the throaty, sexy purr of the Jaguar.

It was Doc. He looked a bit more somber than usual when he got out of his car, but he managed a warm smile as he mounted the steps to the porch. “Got any more of that coffee?” he asked, looking at her a little too closely for comfort.

She started to uncurl her legs. “I'll get it for you…”

“Heavens, no! I can help myself. You haven't changed the layout of the kitchen that much since the old days. I'll feel right at home. Can I get you a refill?”

“Why do I have the feeling this isn't a strict social call?” Sophie asked, handing him her mug.

“It's a social call,” Doc said. “But let's just say it's a concerned one. I'll be back in a minute.”

Sophie let out a pent-up breath. Whatever Doc wanted to talk about, she didn't think she was going to enjoy it. Right now she had enough problems without facing any new ones. Though knowing Doc,
he was probably there to help her, not make her life more complicated.

“Here you go,” he said, coming back onto the porch with two mugs of coffee. He sat in one of the rocking chairs, then took a sip. “Wonderful,” he said.

“What did you mean, like the old days?” she asked. “Were you friends with Peggy Niles?”

Doc laughed. “Everyone around here is related. Peggy was my older sister. I thought you knew that. This was our family place. My father was the town doctor, my mother the nurse, and they used the whole back end of the building as the hospital. I grew up in this house.”

“I knew the closed-up wing had been a hospital at one time. For some reason I just didn't connect you with it. Why didn't you keep the place? How did your sister end up with it?”

“Times changed. Back when I was a kid every small town had its own hospital, but by the time I was growing up the local ones had closed and everybody started going down to Morrisville or St. Johnsbury. Or to Burlington for the big stuff. It made more sense for me to have an office in town, and Rima never liked being too far out in the country. Peggy married Burt Niles, and they stayed on here to farm for a while. Not that it worked,” he said, leaning back in the rocker. “Burt was never good for much, and he took off eventually. Peggy
tried to keep the place going, first as a nursing home, then as a bed-and-breakfast, but obviously it didn't work. She was about ready to give up when the murders happened.”

“She died, didn't she?”

“Peggy? She got cancer a few years later. There was nothing anyone could do,” Doc said, grief and dignity etched in his seamed face. “All the training I had, and I couldn't save her.”

“I'm so sorry, Doc,” Sophie said.

He shrugged. “I'm a doctor—I should get used to death. But you know, you never do, no matter how many times you have to deal with it.”

“No, I imagine you don't,” she said.

Doc gave himself a little shake. “Heavens, I didn't come out on this beautiful morning to talk about gloomy things like death. I wanted to find out what happened last night and make sure you're okay.”

“Last night?” she echoed, feeling guilty, immediately thinking of sex. She'd run at the last minute, she hadn't given in to temptation and gone back to bed with John Smith—no matter how much she'd wanted to. Besides, what did Doc care about such things…?

“I heard you had car trouble,” he said. “Zebulon King was out early this morning, and he dragged your car out of a ditch down the road and hauled it
to town. Said it looked as if you'd had a fender bender. He said there was blood all over the seat.”

“I hit my head,” she said, feeling almost embarrassed.

“So I can see. You should have come to see me right away, Sophie. Or given me a call—I would have come out here. Head wounds are nothing to mess around with—you might have a concussion, or worse.”

“I'm fine, Doc. It just bled like crazy.”

“Was it your neighbor? Did he run you off the road?”

“Why would you think such a thing?” she demanded. “No one ran me off the road.” And then she realized that wasn't strictly true. The drunk driver up near Dutchman's Falls had been the cause of it all, but whoever it was, he was long gone. “I was driving home late, it was raining, and I wasn't paying enough attention to the roads. I missed my turn and ended up in a ditch. Embarrassing, but really quite simple.”

There was a long pause. “Zebulon King says there's blue paint on one of the fenders. He's a bit of a religious kook but he doesn't tend to get these things wrong. Did you hit someone, Sophie? You can tell me the truth. Were you drinking last night? If you hit something, or someone, the best thing you can do is admit to it. I can help you…”

“Doc, I wasn't drinking last night!” Sophie said
with a little laugh. “I don't drink much, anyway, and I certainly don't drink and drive. I was just distracted. Thinking about things, and the roads were slick in the rain.”

She didn't tell him about her near miss. It seemed like a waste of time, and he'd worry needlessly, but it felt strange to be lying to him. Maybe it was simply because he was so ready to jump to the wrong conclusion. Why in the world would he distrust Smith? The fact that she did was inconsequential—she had every reason to suspect him of at least lying to her. Doc should have taken him at face value.

“That was very kind of Mr. King,” she added. “I've seen him at Audley's a few times. He's the one who looks like Abraham Lincoln without his Prozac. I wouldn't have thought he'd be bothered. He doesn't seem to have much use for people in general and newcomers in particular. I pity his poor wife.”

“He's a good man,” Doc said. “He's just got old-fashioned values.”

“Old-fashioned as in Old Testament? He makes me uncomfortable. He always looks like he's wanting to paste a scarlet
A
to my chest.”

“Do you deserve one?” Doc asked gently.

“No.”

Doc nodded, though he still looked doubtful. “I'm glad to hear it. I worry sometimes. And I'm
glad to know that no one was involved last night. That no one tried to hurt you.”

“Why would anyone? I don't have any enemies.”

“Some people don't need to have enemies to be hurt. I'm being an old fussbudget, I know. Ever since that awful time I keep worrying, thinking it's going to happen again. That it's not over, that the man who killed those girls will come back again.”

“Why would he?” Sophie asked, the coffee suddenly turning to lead in the pit of her stomach.

“Don't they say the murderer always returns to the scene of his crime? Maybe he can't help it. Maybe the killer wants to atone for his sins. Or maybe he wants to kill some more. Psychiatry was never my specialty—I don't understand homicidal maniacs, and I really don't want to. I just want to make sure that no one else gets hurt.”

Sophie leaned forward and put her hand on his rough, gnarled one. “Doc, it was twenty years ago.”

“It's not over,” Doc said, his eyes haunted. “Something tells me it's not over yet. I want you to be extra careful, Sophie. Don't go trusting any strangers, no matter how nice they seem to be. And don't let Marty go wandering off alone. That girl is ripe for trouble, and it would break my heart to see history repeat itself.”

Sophie squashed down her immediate panic. “Nothing's going to happen to Marty!” she said
firmly. “She's surprisingly good at taking care of herself. It's Grace who worries me.”

“She's the least of your worries. He kills young girls, remember? Not older women. All three victims were slightly wayward young women, not much older than your sister. I don't want to see it happen again.”

Sophie set her empty coffee mug down on the porch. “Doc, the killer's probably dead himself. He's not going to come back twenty years later and kill again.”

Doc just looked at her. “Can you be certain?” he asked in a quiet voice. “Maybe he never left. Be careful, Sophie. Both you and Marty.”

“What are you talking about?” Marty appeared in the doorway, looking suspicious.

“You're up early,” Sophie said, trying to change the subject.

“I told Patrick I'd help him stack wood,” she said, trying to sound offhand. “I need a little exercise.”

Sophie resisted the temptation to point out that there was plenty of exercise to be had clearing out the rooms in the old hospital annex, but she resisted. Ever since Patrick had appeared on the scene Marty's mood had improved dramatically, and Sophie wasn't about to jeopardize it.

“I think he's around back. You can take him
some coffee and muffins if you want,” she said instead.

Marty was staring at her through the screen door. “Okay,” she said absently, squinting at her. “What the hell happened to you last night?”

Sophie touched her forehead nervously. “Just a bump on the head,” she said dismissively.

“I don't mean that. I mean the monster hickey on your neck. What have you been doing, big sis? You've gone from straight-laced to wanton in sixty seconds flat.”

“Marty…” Sophie glanced at Doc, but he was merely shaking his head, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Don't worry about me, Sophie,” he said. “I understand human nature better than most, and I know what temptation's like for healthy young people. But that doesn't mean I'm not still worried. You shouldn't be so trusting.”

“I'm not!”

“Keep away from your neighbor. I imagine it's the last thing you want to do, but I don't trust him. Give me a chance to check up on him before you spend any more time alone with him. Promise me that, Sophie.”

“Doc, there's nothing to worry about,” she protested. “I barely know the man, but I'm sure there's nothing wrong with him.”

“If you barely know the man, why do you have a love bite on your neck?” he said, sounding almost
doleful. “Will you at least promise you'll be careful?”

“Of course.”

Doc nodded, though clearly he wasn't satisfied. “King towed your car to Ferber's, but they don't know when they can get to it. One tire's ruined, and he's not sure if you bent the frame.”

“Great,” Sophie muttered.

“Don't worry. If you need a ride anywhere just give me a call.”