Stop Me (32 page)

Now he was finished but tired and angry. After all these years he was still bowing and scraping and giving her most of the power in their relationship. But she’d been more of a mother to him than his real mother, so it wasn’t surprising that he’d feel some desire to please her, was it?

“Wasted effort,” he grumbled, mad at himself for reacting to those old feelings of inadequacy. He couldn’t please Valerie. She’d never approved of him. The derogatory comments she’d made about him while he was growing up came to mind at the most inappropriate moments: If he wasn’t so lazy, maybe he’d be more of a help to me. As it is, he’s as much of a burden as my mother…. He’s a little pervert. I just caught him playing with himself again…. He can’t ask anyone to the dance.

There isn’t a girl in that school who’d go out with him….

The humiliation and embarrassment she’d caused him with her constant ridicule created a blinding rage. Even now. He hated her, wished her dead. And yet…she’d put food on the table and made sure he had a roof over his head. She’d come home after work at night. That was something, wasn’t it? That was more than his real mother had done.

A noise at the door alerted him that she’d finally arrived and, all of a sudden, he was loath to answer her knock. The woman he’d attacked last night had been so terrified. The memory of her fear made him feel invincible, like God. If he let Valerie into his home, he’d feel like a worthless piece of shit again.

“Gruber? Are you in there?”

At the irritation in her voice, he got up, moving as though she could control his body—like a puppeteer jerking the strings of a marionette. He stood, cast a lingering glance at the fridge where he’d put his trophy from last night, then walked slowly, inexorably, toward the door. Maybe she’d look in the freezer. Maybe he’d show her

—

191

“Gruber? I’m tired. I’ve been working all night, and I have to get home. Give me a break here.”

He should’ve changed his shirt. Why hadn’t he thought of that? This one was wrinkled and dirty from the scrubbing. He hesitated, wondering if it was too late, but she banged on the door, and that tone was entering her voice. The tone that made him want to curl up and cover his ears.

“Gruber!” You idiot. “I need to talk to you.” I knew you’d screw this up. You are such a loser!

And yet he continued to walk calmly to the door, opening it just as her temper flared. “There you are!”

Why did he wait? Why hadn’t he staved off her displeasure by answering when she first arrived?

He didn’t know. He’d cleaned all night for her. And now he’d ruined it. He’d ruined it with the dirty shirt she was already sneering at and his tardy answer.

“It’s after noon,” she snapped, standing there in her perfectly white nurse’s uniform. “Don’t tell me you were still in bed!”

She hated laziness more than anything. And he, of course, was lazy. He heard it in her voice.

“I’ve been working.”

“At what? Every time I ask, you give me some evasive answer, which probably means you’re sitting here on your ass, collecting unemployment. I know you’re not working for the lighting company anymore. They wouldn’t take you back if you begged them.”

There it was again. The blaring message: You’re not good enough. You’ll never be good enough.

“I haven’t asked you for money in ages,” he pointed out.

“A year is ‘ages’?” she scoffed.

It’d never be long enough for her. “How’s Steve?”

“The same.”

He didn’t need to ask about any kids. His sister had decided, since he’d been so hard to raise, she wouldn’t have children. I’ve been there, done that. Noooo, thank you, she’d say if she was ever asked.

“So, are you going to invite me in?”

He stepped aside and her antiseptic smell came in with her. No doubt she’d gotten involved in some task at work. She wouldn’t have been late for any other reason. Being late was inconsiderate to others. How many times had he heard that growing up?

“Couldn’t you clean this place up?” she said, prowling around.

192

Gruber halfway hoped she’d open the freezer. The thought of her resulting shock and dismay—the thought of having the upper hand with his sister—made him smile slyly.

“What’s that sneaky little smirk for?” she asked.

“I was thinking of having you over for dinner.”

“You? Cook?”

“I’m sure I can find something in the freezer,” he said and chortled at his own joke.

Her eyes narrowed. “Yeah, right. What? TV dinners?”

“Not exactly.”

She looked at him as if she knew he didn’t mean it in a nice way but didn’t want to bother ferreting out what was really behind his invitation. “Yeah, well, that’s great. But Mom’s dying. You know that, don’t you?” The pleasant image of his sister’s horrified expression as she opened his freezer dissipated. “I know she’s sick.”

“And you don’t give a damn.”

Was he supposed to care? “She used to beat me within an inch of my life.” She deserved whatever she got.

“She was none too nice to me, either. But I guess you don’t remember that.” He remembered she hadn’t been half as mean to Valerie. She’d needed Valerie. Valerie had taken care of her. Valerie had taken care of him, too, so his mother wouldn’t have to. Valerie could do anything; she knew how to survive.

“I’m not here to argue with you about the past. What happened happened and there’s no changing it.”

“Such sympathy,” he murmured.

“Feeling sorry for yourself will get you nowhere.” She brushed at an imaginary speck of dust on her uniform. “She said you haven’t been to see her once.”

“I don’t want to see her.”

“She wasn’t a perfect mother, but she’s still your mother.”

“And you’re still my sister and I don’t like you any better.” He’d been dying to say those words but, once they were out, he was as shocked as she seemed to be. He was also encouraged. Maybe it was the memory of his recent kill, the memory of wielding that power. It was so intoxicating it made him reckless.

“What’d you say?” Her mouth hung open. It was almost as good as having her look in his freezer.

Almost. But not quite.

“You heard me.”

“That’s a fine thank-you for all I’ve done for you,” she said. “Do you have any idea what I gave up to make sure you had what you needed?” 193

Gruber nearly cackled with incredulity. She’d never given him what he needed. No one had. But the old Gruber was suddenly hesitant to press his advantage. “I was just joking,” he mumbled, trying to reel in the emotions banging around inside him.

“Very funny. You never did know how to win friends and influence people.” She was back in charge, grinding her point painfully home. “If only I could’ve had a normal little brother, maybe my life wouldn’t have been such hell.” How many times had he heard that? It was the reason he’d killed her cat when he was thirteen and shoved it in the backpack she’d left on the patio. She’d believed her rival at school had done the deed—a girl who used to taunt her for their poverty.

Valerie had never figured out it was him. But he’d enjoyed her tears that night. She’d deserved the punishment. He only gave people what they deserved.

“Is that why you came?” he asked. “To convince me to visit Mother for a tearful send-off as she approaches the pearly gates?”

“I have no illusions that she’s venturing anywhere close to heaven. A woman who slept around as much as she did has no hope of that. Sometimes I hate her as much as you do. But…I’m thinking about later, about the fact that we may never have the chance to make peace with her if we don’t do it now.” She studied him for a moment, then released a long sigh. “And I thought it might help you get your shit together to finally bury the hatchet.”

“I don’t have to. I’m happy the way I am.”

“Happy?” she scoffed. “How can you be happy? You’re forty years old, you don’t have a friend in the world and you live in a dump.” Gruber couldn’t have said what, exactly, provoked him. His sister was treating him the same way she always had. But he grabbed her by the wrist before he knew he was going to do it. And then that look came into her eyes. The flash of fear that whetted his appetite for dominance.

“Let go. You’re hurting me!” She tried for her usual “I’m in command” tone, but her voice faltered just enough to tell him she wasn’t quite sure of herself. He could do this. He could kill her like the others. She was nothing special, no big deal, no different from any other fragile human. Not now.

“That’s what I want to do,” he whispered vehemently.

“You’re crazy. I’ve always known it.” The fear was undisguised now. It flared her nostrils, dilated her eyes, filling him with a sense of power, and power was the antidote to the miserable helplessness that plagued him at all other times. “Let go before you do something you’ll regret.”

“I won’t regret this,” he promised. “I’m going to hurt you and hurt you and hurt you some more, until you beg me on bended knee to stop. And then I’m going to carve your heart out of your chest and put it in my freezer.” He let his eagerness 194

reveal itself in a broad smile. “I’m definitely going to want something special to remember this moment.”

“My God,” she whispered, and that was when he realized she knew he was completely serious.

Romain felt useless while Jasmine worked on her computer, trying to e-mail the video clip in a format most servers could handle. She’d managed to contact whoever she was sending it to, and that person seemed confident he could get someone else to help her. But Romain wasn’t so sure he wanted to know whether or not he’d fired that gun. It was one thing when he thought Moreau had killed his little girl; it was another now that he faced some doubt. “Can I borrow this?” Jasmine pulled her attention from the computer long enough to see what he wanted. “Sure.”

Taking her cell phone, he stepped outside the Internet café and dialed Huff’s number in Colorado.

“Hello?”

He assumed it was Marcie, Huff’s wife. “Is Alvin home?”

“No. I’m afraid he’s been called away on business. Can I take a message?”

“It’s Romain, Marcie.”

“I thought I recognized that voice. How are you, Romain?” She seemed genuinely interested.

“Fine,” he replied. It was true. Despite everything Jasmine was stirring up, he was doing better than he had since prison. But he didn’t want to consider why.

Because that had something to do with Jasmine, too. “When did Alvin leave?”

“A couple of days ago. He was supposed to be back yesterday for Christmas dinner, but an urgent matter came up and he called to tell me he couldn’t make it.”

“Did he happen to mention where he was going?”

“He’s in New Orleans. He said if you called to give you his cell number. He’s been trying to reach you.”

Romain gripped the phone tighter. “Did he provide any details?”

“No, but that’s not unusual,” she said with a weary chuckle. “He never does.

Not until it’s all over. And then, sometimes, he needs to talk. I’m sure he can tell you more. Do you have a pen?”

“Just a sec.” Romain returned to the café to ask for a pen and a napkin to write on. Jasmine was exactly where he’d left her, but she was no longer working. She was staring at her screen with such intensity he could see lines of concentration on her forehead. She’d found something interesting; Romain could tell. But he had to get this number before he could ask her what it was.

“Go ahead,” he said into the phone, still watching Jasmine. As Marcie rattled off the number, he wrote it down, then hung up as soon as possible and strode over.

195

“What is it?” he asked. He expected her to say that the news had finally broken about a woman being murdered, as she’d dreamed last night.

But that wasn’t it.

She pointed to her screen. “I got this message from Pearson Black. He sent it yesterday, to the general ‘contact us’ box at the Web site for The Last Stand. Skye forwarded it to my personal e-mail.”

It was a short message. Did you find what you were looking for?

Coming from anyone else, Romain figured that could be a sincere question.

Coming from the man he’d met during his daughter’s investigation, those words could just as easily constitute a taunt. “He knows something.”

“I agree.”

“See if you can tempt him into telling you what it is.” Jasmine clicked on the Instant Message button. Black was online. Who was the dead man?

They waited a few minutes, during which Jasmine spoke with a private investigator named Jonathan in California. She asked him to dig up what he could on each of the Moreaus and on Pearson Black and, when she clicked back, Pearson had already responded.

“The beauty of the Internet,” Romain muttered as Jasmine opened his message.

“There you are. Where’ve you been?” she read aloud. “I thought maybe I’d see you again.”

“Where’s his surprise over your reference to a dead man?” Romain asked.

“Wouldn’t most people say, ‘What dead guy?’”

“You’d think so.” Jasmine started typing again. Are you the one who locked me in that cellar?

CopBedTimeStories: My feelings are hurt. Why would you accuse me?

JazzStratford: You’re the only one who knew I was going there.

CopBedTimeStories: You’re not exactly invisible.

JazzStratford: You didn’t answer my question.

CopBedTimeStories: What question?

JazzStratford: Who was the dead man?

There was a pause. Romain was afraid they’d lost him, that he wasn’t going to answer. But just as he was about to suggest they pack up, Jasmine grabbed his arm.

“Look at this!”

CopBedTimeStories: Jack Lewis. D.O.B. 12/8/54; Last known whereabouts: Longsford Community Center. He drove a van that shuttled kids from school to a center for after-hours care.

JazzStratford: How do you know?

196

Black’s reply consisted of only one line and it didn’t answer the question: Don’t say I never did anything for you.

Who killed him? she wrote and sent off the message.

That’s anyone’s guess, came the reply. And that was it; he wouldn’t respond again.

“What do you think?” Jasmine asked Romain, slumping against the back of her chair as if the sudden flow of adrenaline had left her drained.