Stop Me (30 page)

And then Romain was there. “Calm down.” Catching her wrists so she couldn’t hit him anymore, he used his weight to press her into the couch and stop her from thrashing around. “I’ve got you, Jasmine. You’re okay. It’s me. You just had a bad dream.”

Jasmine blinked and stared up at him. There was no open window. No other presence. She was in Romain’s shack in the bayou, as safe as ever.

But what she’d experienced hadn’t been a dream. “No!” Still terrified, she tried to push past him, to get up, but he cradled her against him and spoke to her as if he was gentling a spooked horse. “Relax. Shh…”

Shaking violently, she turned her face into the hollow beneath his collarbone and began to sob. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to believe the words he crooned to her. But she couldn’t get the images out of her mind. “He killed her,” she said, hiccoughing from her tears. “He thought she…was me and he…he hacked her to pieces.”

Romain didn’t know what to think. It was the middle of the night, and Jasmine was sitting at his kitchen table demanding he drive her to a phone so she could report a murder. But what good would that do? She couldn’t provide the identity of the person who was stabbed, where that person lived or the name of the man who’d wielded the knife.

“Jasmine, if you call in like this, you’ll lose all credibility.” Romain had witnessed her reaction and was still having difficulty accepting that she’d been privy to a murder while sleeping on his couch.

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The shaking had subsided but her dilated pupils and clammy pallor testified to the very real terror she’d experienced. “I don’t care,” she said stubbornly. “I have to do what I can to help that poor woman.”

“What poor woman?” he said for the third time. “Can you come up with a name, even a first name? Initials? They’re going to need a little more to go on than

‘someone was killed tonight.’”

“I’ve never met her. I know that.”

“But the man with the knife—you think it was the guy who abducted your sister.”

“Yes.”

A man she hadn’t been able to find for sixteen years…“Where did he see her?

Why did he choose her?”

Jasmine’s hand went to her chest as if she was reliving the memory of his vicious thrusts. “I don’t know where he saw her. All I know is that he wanted it to be me. He was trying to appease the rage he feels toward me by taking it out on someone else. A stranger. Someone who probably looks like me.”

“You’ve been under a lot of stress,” Romain said gently. “Are you sure it wasn’t a nightmare? People have nightmares all the time.”

“Occasionally I make mistakes,” she admitted. “Misinterpret something.

Become too personally involved in a case and miss clues I should’ve picked up.

But…” she shook her head and her voice fell to a whisper “…I’m not wrong about this.”

She’d been right when she’d told him about the tattoos on his body and the cut on his thigh. She’d been right about Adele’s necklace. And he knew she’d shared his fantasy that first night. He had enough experience with Jasmine to believe her, even if he didn’t want to. “But it’s already happened, hasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then there’s nothing we can do to help the victim. She’s dead, Jaz.” He watched the fight drain out of her as she covered her face with her hands.

“We have to find him before he does it again,” she said at last.

“When will that be?”

“Could be a few days, could be weeks. It’ll depend on the amount of frustration in his regular life. He’s hardened over the years,” she added, almost as an aside, “become more calculating. He’ll keep going until he finds me. Right now, I’m the one he wants and he can’t think of anything else.”

“Why you?”

“I’m a loose end. Someone who saw his face. I’m escalating my search for him by going on national television, talking about what he did, speculating on the kind of man he is. Chances are good he’s heard me swear I won’t give up, and he knows I’m amassing more resources and influence in the investigative world.

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Mostly, he knows I’ll stop at nothing.” She paused, absently combing her fingers through her hair.

“Maybe something you said on television triggered a close call,” Romain suggested, “made someone question him or suspect he was involved.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. That’s why he sent that note. He wanted to draw me to New Orleans.”

“Wouldn’t that put him at greater risk?”

Jasmine turned the cup of tea he’d made her around and around. “Not if he killed me.”

The possibility of losing someone else he cared about made Romain glad he’d kept this woman at arm’s length. He couldn’t invest his emotions in her, couldn’t let himself grow attached. “Then why didn’t he track you down in Sacramento?” She frowned, finally calm enough to act more like herself. “My guess is he has trouble getting away. Maybe he’s married with kids, or he has a job that won’t allow it. Maybe he doesn’t have the money. Some practical reason that limits him or keeps him busy with other stuff.”

Romain thought of the bayou. Even when others couldn’t catch a thing, he came home laden with fish, shrimp, crabs. He understood its quirks and secrets, where to find what he was looking for, when to give up on a certain spot. “And knowing the area gives him an advantage.”

Her eyes met his. “Exactly.”

The bloodlust had exhausted him. Breathing hard, Gruber sneered at what was left of the woman in the bloody bed. Humans were so fragile….

Using the knife he’d removed from her kitchen drawer, he sawed off her hand and shoved it in his back pocket. He used to collect pieces of jewelry or clothing, even pictures, but this was so much more personal. Unfortunately, he didn’t know this woman the way he did the others, so the memento wouldn’t bring him much joy.

He preferred to spend days, weeks, even months with his victims—although only one had lasted that long. Peccavi kept him so busy with the business they did together, he had little time to do his own hunting. It wasn’t as if he could keep any of the children destined for the transfer house. Peccavi would kill him if he tried. True, he’d been able to keep Kimberly for a while, but only because she’d been a windfall, an unexpected gift, a child Peccavi hadn’t realized he’d taken.

“Tonight didn’t have to end like this,” he told her. It was Jasmine’s fault. He wouldn’t have done this without provocation. Never before had he risked harming someone in an unsecured area. It was like those rules that Peccavi always harped on.

A man had to have self-discipline in order to remain safe. But once Gruber had spotted the woman at that gas station, the frustration he felt at being unable to locate Romain’s house had taken over. No one in Portsville had been willing to talk to him; he was an outsider, an unknown, and they were fiercely protective of Fornier.

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But he’d find Jasmine eventually, he promised himself. She was searching for him. She wouldn’t go far.

Somehow, that thought made him feel better. Wiping the knife with a dish towel to get rid of any prints, he stabbed it back into the woman’s dead body and walked through the front door. She lived away from the city with at least half a mile between her and the closest neighbor. He wasn’t worried that anyone had heard her screams, or that anyone would see him. Which was good, since he didn’t have a lot of time. He had to get home as soon as possible. His sister had called earlier to say she was coming to see him first thing in the morning. She claimed she had some information about their mother he’d want to know.

He found that highly implausible, but planned to be there when she arrived, just in case she went in and started snooping around. The door to his bunker was in the master closet—not someplace she was likely to go, but it could be seen when he didn’t cover it well, and he’d been lazy of late. No one ever came to his place; he’d had no reason to worry.

The theme song from Gilligan’s Island came to mind. He whistled it softly as he got into his car. He’d have to do something about the blood on his hands and face and in his hair. Stabbing was a dirty business. But cleaning up wouldn’t be hard.

He’d burn his clothes in the fireplace. And while the fire warmed the house, he’d take a nice hot shower.

They ended up driving to New Orleans rather than going back to bed. Jasmine couldn’t sleep. She didn’t dare close her eyes after what she’d experienced. And she couldn’t seek the comfort she craved from Romain or she’d invite even more confusion and risk. She needed to stay focused, to find Kimberly—or learn what had happened to her—and get out of New Orleans. Anything else threatened the calm she’d established, the routine, the sense of balance and control she’d so painstakingly created.

“There you are!” Mr. Cabanis’s daughter exclaimed when Jasmine entered the lobby of Maison du Soleil with Romain at her elbow. “We’ve been worried about you.”

She didn’t seem to recognize Romain despite all the media coverage surrounding Adele’s disappearance and Moreau’s trial. She was probably too young when Adele went missing to follow the story as closely as her parents.

“Have there been any murders reported on the news?” Jasmine asked.

The girl straightened in surprise. “Murders?”

“Have you heard anything about a woman being stabbed to death last night?” Her eyes widened. “Here at the hotel?”

“Anywhere in New Orleans.”

“N-no,” she said. “But we were afraid something had happened to you. When the maid went in to clean your room yesterday, she found it torn apart. My mom tried 182

to call you at the cell phone number we have on file, but you weren’t picking up and no one had seen you. We thought you might’ve been attacked.”

“Did you call the police?” Romain asked.

She smiled at him. “We did. They tried to tell us it was too soon to report Ms.

Stratford missing, that she could be sightseeing or visiting friends. We would’ve figured that,” she said defensively. “I mean, most people don’t hang out in a hotel room on Christmas Day. But the mess…” She turned back to Jasmine. “It didn’t look like anything you’d done. It looked like someone ransacked the place.”

“Someone did ransack the place,” she said.

The girl’s expression revealed a measure of vindication. “I thought so! Should I call the police again?”

“I’ll do it,” Jasmine told her. “But first, tell me the maid didn’t clean my room.”

“No. The police told my mother to leave it, just in case.” Jasmine breathed a sigh of relief. She wanted to determine if there was any evidence that might lead to the intruder’s identity. As much as she tried to tell herself it had to be the same man who’d abducted Kimberly and haunted her dreams last night, something didn’t feel right about that supposition. The man with the mask had a different kind of motivation. She could tell by the utility of his actions, and the intent she’d sensed as he chased her. He’d wanted to stop her, to end her life, but it was for practical reasons, not to appease a grudge or feed some impulse he couldn’t control.

“I’m going to need a new key,” she said.

“No problem.” The girl created the replacement and passed it over the counter.

“We’ll be happy to move you to a different room, if you want.”

“There’s no need. She’ll be checking out today,” Romain said.

Jasmine looked up at him. She was finished with Maison du Soleil, but she hadn’t mentioned it yet. “Excuse me?”

“You’re leaving us?” the girl burst out before Romain could respond.

“She’s moving to Portsville,” he said firmly.

“Not Portsville,” she corrected. “Just another location here in New Orleans.” She couldn’t go back to the little motel hanging over the bayou or she’d end up spending all her nights with Romain. “Have there been any messages for me?”

“I almost forgot. You have quite a few. That’s another reason we were so concerned.” She reached beneath the desk and handed Jasmine a small stack of papers.

Jasmine flipped through them. Three were from Skye. “Call me…Where the heck are you?…The money should be there. Did you get it?” Four were from Sheridan. “Why aren’t you answering your cell?…Aren’t you even going to wish me a Merry Christmas?…Are you okay?…I should never have let you go down there 183

alone!” And the last was from her father. “A woman named Sheridan called here, asking for you. Why didn’t you tell me you were in the South?”

“Shit,” she muttered, staring at it.

“What is it?” Romain asked.

She shoved the messages into the pocket of the jeans he’d borrowed for her yesterday and moved toward the elevator. “Nothing.”

“Was one of those from the guy who broke into your room?”

“No. It’s not that. It’s…nothing.”

He pressed the call button for the elevator. “Tell me.”

“My best friend just informed my father that I’m in town, that’s all.”

“And that’s bad news?”

The antique elevator doors cranked open, two people got off and she stepped inside. “If I wanted to see him, I would’ve spent Christmas with him instead of making a fool of myself at your parents’ place.”

“They liked you.”

She pushed the button for the third floor and the doors closed. “Because they thought we had something going. They want you to get married again, have babies, be happy. They wouldn’t have been too thrilled to know we’ve been fooling around for the sake of fooling around.”

“Is that what we’ve been doing?” he asked dryly.

The way he set his jaw indicated a stronger emotional response than the one he gave, but Jasmine ignored it. “Basically.”

“Thank God you didn’t say that.”

“I should’ve at least told them there’s nothing between us.”

“You did. You said we didn’t even like each other.”

“I don’t think anyone believed me.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I’m sure they could tell it wasn’t quite like that. As a matter of fact, we need to find a store. We’re out of condoms, remember?” She raised a hand. “We don’t need more. It happened. It’s over. We’re forgetting it.”

The elevator stopped and the old doors opened again. “What if I don’t want to forget it?” he challenged.

She rubbed a weary hand over her face. “I already have.” With a slightly cocky expression, he watched her from beneath his lashes as they found her door. “Am I supposed to believe you after the way you kissed me in that bathroom?”