The Obsession (36 page)

He held out his hand, pinky crooked. She hooked hers with it. “Even when you’re married with five kids,” he warned.

She snorted. “That’ll be the day.”

Yes,
he thought.
Yes, it will.

—

H
e saw her come in. He’d been watching, waiting, and felt a tightening in his loins when she stepped into the bar. Pale yellow shirt, snug jeans.

Had her kid brother with her, and after one look at the stage where the mechanic and his grease monkeys hammered away on some ancient Rolling Stones bullshit, the kid brother began to scan the room.

So he angled away, picked up his beer.

Grabbing a stool at the end of the bar hadn’t been a problem. Most people wanted tables—and he didn’t. A solo at a table drew attention. A guy sitting at the bar drinking a beer didn’t.

He shifted on the stool just enough to keep them in his line of sight as they worked their way through the tables to sit with the asshole carpenter and his asshole wife.

He’d thought about killing the wife—Jenny—just for the hell of it. But she really wasn’t his type.

Maybe, if he ever decided to come back this way, just for the memories, he’d pay her a little visit. But he didn’t have time to play with her now.

Now, it was all about Naomi. So he’d watch awhile, finish his beer, leave a decent tip. Nobody remembered a decent tipper, just the lousy ones or the big ones.

Then he had things to do. It was going to be a big night.

—

Y
ou said they were good,” Mason shouted at Naomi. “You didn’t say they were really good.”

Delighted, she nudged him toward the table. “They’re really good!” She locked eyes with Xander and thought:
Oh yeah, I’m with the leader of the band.

After laying a hand on Jenny’s shoulder, she leaned down. “We’re a little later than we planned. I’m going to the bar for a round. Are you guys ready for another?”

“We could be.”

She gave the shoulder a squeeze, started toward the bar. Because she wanted to connect with Loo, she aimed for the middle, idly scanning as she went.

She saw a man at the far end, bill of a ball cap pulled low, head down toward the nearly empty beer glass in front of him. And
felt
him watching her.

He rubbed his fingers up the bridge of his nose, shouldered away from her. Something shivered up her spine like a warning. Despite it, or maybe because of it, she changed directions, started toward the other end of the bar.

“Hey, Naomi!” Krista popped up from her table, grabbing Naomi into a hug. “We sold the print of Xander with the dog. Ten minutes before closing.”

“That’s great.”

“We need more!”

“I’ll get you more.”

“Can we have a sit-down next week, talk about it?”

“Sure. Email me. We’ll set it up.”

She broke away in time to see the man in the cap walking casually toward the exit.

Nothing, she told herself. Probably nothing. Changing directions again, she walked up to the bar and Loo.

“Guy walking out was giving you the eye,” Loo said before Naomi could speak.

“I saw that. He was sitting alone, end of the bar.”

“Didn’t like the look of him.”

“Why?”

Loo shrugged, continued to mix a dirty martini. “Warmed that seat nearly two hours, nursed one beer—and had his eye on the door half the time. Kept his head down, wouldn’t look you in the eye.” She shrugged again, added a spear of two fat olives to the glass. “But he watched you, all the way to the table.”

“I couldn’t get a good look at him. Did you?”

“Not much of one. Suz! Order’s up! Kept his head down, like I said. Early thirties, I’d say, looked like brown hair under that cap. Long, skinny fingers. Couldn’t keep them off his face. Nervous like, if you ask me.”

She pulled the next ticket, set two beer mugs under taps, drew them both at once.

“Or maybe it’s me who has the jitters, between one thing and the other.”

“Are we all right? You and me?”

“No reason for us not to be. Terry! You’re up. Are you here to chat or drink?” she asked Naomi.

“Both, I guess. A round for the table. Kevin’s beer, Jenny’s wine, and I’ll have the same. A Corona with lime for my brother. I’m so sorry, Loo.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. If you want to talk, we’ll talk when I don’t have to yell back at you. My boy up there loves you. Anything else is just noise.”

“I’m really going to try not to screw it up.”

On a bark of laughter, Loo set the two glasses of wine on a tray. “Aren’t you the positive thinker?”

“That’s pretty positive for me.”

She carried the tray to the table, served the drinks. Suz breezed by, grabbed the tray, kept breezing.

“Jenny says they’ve got a CD.” Mason hefted his bottle. “I’m going to buy it. You know the uncles are going to love this.” He drank some beer, sighed. “Thought you’d never get back with this.”

“They’re busy, and I was talking with Loo. There was this guy . . .”

Immediately Mason set down his beer. “What guy?”

“Just a guy at the bar. We both felt he was watching me.”

“Where?”

“He left.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“No. Mason—”

“Did she?”

“Not really.”

He got up, left his beer, and headed toward the bar.

“Hey! I was going to talk him into dancing with me.”

“He’ll be back—and he can dance.” Wishing she’d said nothing, Naomi picked up her wine.

When Mason came back, he leaned in close and spoke directly in her ear. “She says early thirties, white, short brown hair, average to slim build, about five-ten.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’d say. And I can pick out twenty more guys in here that more or less fit that.”

“But you had a feeling, both of you. Feelings count. I’m going to have someone work with you tomorrow.”

“Mason.”

“People see more than they think they do, especially observant people. It can’t hurt.”

“Okay, okay. Now dance with Jenny. She wants to dance, and Kevin has to be cattle-prodded onto the dance floor.”

“I could dance.” He took another swig of beer, then got up to grab Jenny.

With Kevin grinning after them, Naomi turned her attention back to the stage. Xander watched her—and that gave her a feeling she could live with.

—

P
leasantly tired, absolutely relaxed, Naomi settled into Xander’s truck.

Ky leaned in the window. “Sure you don’t want a postgig brew, man?”

“I’m on call, as of ten minutes ago.”

Ky shook his head. “One beer isn’t going to impair you, son.”

“One beer could cost me my license. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

“You shouldn’t feel like you can’t decompress because I’m here,” Naomi began.

“We go that same round after nearly every gig when I’m on call. Plus, I’m ready to head home.”

“I bet the dog’s more than ready to get out.”

“And there’s that. And there’s another way to decompress.”

She smiled. “Is that so?”

“I’ll show you.”

After the dog went out, made his rounds, and settled down for the night, he showed her why home and bed was a much better idea than a beer.

—

W
hen his phone went off at four fifteen, Xander sincerely wished he’d stuck Jimmy (first night in his new apartment, and with a female companion) on the graveyard shift.

“Shit, fuck, shit.” He grabbed the phone, stared blearily at the readout. “Keaton’s. Uh-huh. Right. Okay, got it. About fifteen minutes.”

“You have to go.”

“Dead battery—probably. Between here and town, so I’ll check it, jump it if that’s it, and be back in a half hour.”

“You want coffee?” she mumbled.

“Like I want to breathe, but I’ll get it. Go back to sleep.”

“Don’t tell me twice,” she managed, and did just that.

Even the dog didn’t get up. Xander saw Tag’s eyes gleam as he pulled on clothes, but the dog didn’t stir or follow him down to grab that coffee before he headed out.

He used a travel mug, downing the coffee as he walked out to his truck.

Thirty, forty minutes, he thought as he gave the house one last long look. He’d be back. The doors were locked, the alarm set, the dog right there.

She’d be fine.

Still, he wished he’d dumped the shift on Jimmy. He knew about the guy at the bar—had noted him himself. The way he sat alone, head down, the way he’d kept a bead on Naomi when she’d come in.

Then again, he’d noted a guy sitting alone at a table, one who fit the basic nondescription, and who’d given Naomi a long study when she’d walked through the bar.

Until a woman had come in, hurried over, and snuggled up with him.

This murdering bastard didn’t break into houses anyway, he reminded himself. But he flicked a glance in the rearview as he drove away.

“2013 Ford Escape towing a 2006 Fun Finder RV,” he muttered. “Can’t miss that.”

He slowed rounding the turn, and indeed couldn’t miss it. SUV and camper both sat on the shoulder, emergency flashers blinking.

Xander slid in, nose to nose, and watched the man get out of the driver’s seat.

Another reason he hadn’t dumped on Jimmy. The murdering bastard liked hunting on Friday nights. Women, but why take chances?

The man lifted his hands, waving one, blinking against the headlights. Then he turned back to the SUV and spoke to someone inside as Xander got out.

“Keaton’s?”

“That’s right.”

“Mike Rhoder. You were really quick. It just won’t start. I got my kid in the back, and we were heading to Olympia to camp for the weekend. I just pulled over—he had to pee—and it wouldn’t start back up. Just clicks. No, we’re not there yet, Bobby.” He rolled his eyes. “Just go back to sleep.”

Xander hit his own flashers. “Go on and pop the hood. I’ll take a look.”

“Thought I’d be stuck here till morning, then I’d never hear the end of it from my ex. Hope like hell I don’t need a new battery.”

With the hood latch released, Xander went around to the front while the man leaned into the SUV again. “We’re fixing it right now, and it shouldn’t take long. It’s an adventure, right, buddy? And we’re nearly there. Promise.”

“Why don’t you try to start her up?” Xander said with his head under the hood.

“Sure, I can do that.”

There was just the faintest hint of . . . excitement in the tone to have Xander pushing back, bracing. But the blow to the side of his head flashed pain, flashed lights, then shut out into the dark.

“Or I could do that. How about a couple more, for good measure?”

He lifted the crowbar over his head just as he caught headlights beaming ahead of the turn.

Swearing, he lowered the crowbar and gave Xander a shove with his boot to roll him off the shoulder.

The car slowed. The Good Samaritan rolled down his window.

“You all right there, pal?”

“Sure am. Getting a jump, but thanks for stopping!”

“No problem. Have a good one.”

As the car pulled off, he swiped sweat from his face. Too close, and one good crack would have to do. No time for more. He slammed the hood, got back in the SUV, and drove toward the bluff.

He checked the time, smiled to himself. Right on schedule. He’d pull the camper off the road, just far enough up her drive so any cars passing wouldn’t give it a thought, but not so close that she or that damn dog would hear.

He’d thought about poisoning the dog, even researched methods. But they all took too long, were too unpredictable. He needed fast.

He’d thought about shooting the dog, which, while satisfying, would be noisy and give her a chance to run or hide.

And the knife? That meant getting too close to those teeth.

So he’d keep back, and let her go through the routine he’d watched countless times already.

She’d let the dog out the bedroom doors, then head down to the kitchen.

All he had to do was wait.

—

T
he dog woke her, predictably, at five. She reached out first, hoping Xander had come back. Then she reminded herself he’d only been gone about a half hour.

“I’m up. I’m up,” she grumbled as the dog did his predawn dance.

She let him out, then considered crawling back into bed. But the routine was too ingrained. She grabbed cotton pants and a tank, pulling the top on as she walked out of the bedroom.

She’d make waffle batter—after coffee. If Xander hadn’t gotten back by that time, she could text him, get an ETA.

Was it clingy or smothering to text about that?

She didn’t feel clingy or smothering, so she’d text, if necessary.

In the kitchen she hit the lights, put a mug under the machine, and punched the button for a shot of espresso in the coffee.

While it brewed she got out a bowl, eggs, milk, flour, sugar—and stopped gathering ingredients the minute the coffee was ready. And taking it, she walked to the accordion doors.

She wanted to smell morning.

Even as she started to open the glass, she heard movement behind her.

S
he whirled, saw him, threw the coffee, mug and all. The mug hit him dead center of his chest; hot coffee splashed into his face. He shouted, dropped the rag in his hand, and gave her enough time to leap toward the knives.

She grabbed one, spun back. And slowly lowered it.

“Yeah, you know what they say about bringing a knife to a gunfight.” He gestured with the .32 in his hand. “Put that down. You ruined this shirt. Let me tell you, you’re going to pay for it.”

“They’re closing in on you.”

“Yeah, you’d like to believe that, but the fact is, this is all just the way I pictured it.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“We’ll talk about it later. We’ll have plenty of time.” He grinned, pushed his fingers up the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not—”

It clicked, the gesture, the sarcastic quirk of his mouth.

“Chaffins.”

“Took you this long.” Obviously pleased, he grinned. “Well, I had
Lasik—ditched the glasses. And a nose job. Decent haircut, bulked up a little. It’s been a while, Carson. Or should I say Bowes.”

“How could you . . . We were friends.”

“Bullshit. You wouldn’t—didn’t—give me the time of day until I headed up the yearbook committee, cleared you onto the school paper.”

“This is because I didn’t pay enough attention to you? In
high school
?”

“Please, like I carried a torch. I’ve had plenty of women. Girls. Old ladies.” He bared his teeth in a smile. “All of that. I figured out who you were.
I
figured it out, and I made a deal with you. You lied, and you sent that fucking cop over to tell me to keep it zipped.”

How had she missed the madness in his eyes all those years ago? How could she have not seen what she saw now?

“I didn’t make any deal.”

“You fucking did, then you took my idea. You wrote the story yourself. It should’ve been
my
byline. It was my story.”

“It was never yours.”

“Because you’re Thomas David Bowes’s daughter?”

If he lowered the gun, just lowered it, she thought, she had a chance. She’d have to be fast, but she’d take the chance.

“It’s always been about my father.”

“Maybe, maybe he kicked it off because I knew, way back, I’d put your father in the shade. It’s more about your mother.”

“My mother.”

“I said we’ll talk later. Get moving.”

“My mother.” He didn’t want to shoot her, didn’t want to kill her fast. So she planted her feet, took a stand. “You tell me what my mother has to do with any of it.”

“Fine. I’ll give you another minute. But give me any trouble, I’ll shoot you in the knee. It won’t kill you, but it’ll hurt like hell.”

“My mother,” she said again, and checked the time on the oven clock behind him. And thought: Xander. Where was Xander?

“Your mother? Other than birds, some stray cats I killed, she was the first dead body I’d ever seen. Man, it was a revelation! She was cold, and
her eyes. Man, her eyes. I got
such
a boner.” He laughed at the look of disgust on her face. “It’s just wiring, Carson. I was born for this, just like your old man. I’ve studied up on it, researched it. I bet your kid brother and I could have a hell of a conversation about it.”

“You stay away from him.”

“He doesn’t interest me. It’s always been you. I knew when we were on the floor with your mother’s cold, dead body, I’d do you one day. Then I figured out who you were, and that made it so fucking sweet. Now move, or I’ll kneecap you. Maybe I will anyway. I’ve never started out that way be—”

He jerked back when the dog charged the door like a bull.

The wild barks and Chaffins’s shouts exploded in the air.

When he swung the gun toward the door, Naomi threw up her hands. “Don’t. Don’t. I’ll go with you. I’ll go.” She positioned herself in front of the door, hands up.

There was still time, still a chance, she thought desperately. Xander would come back. She could get close enough to try to fight, to get the gun away. Or far enough away to run.

“Out the front, and fast, or I swear to God—”

Tag shoved the opening wider, gathered himself, and leaped.

As the gun swung back, Naomi threw herself over the dog.

The shock of pain dissolved her legs. She heard the dog’s sharp yip as fire burned in her side, as the room spun, as she fell, the dog beneath her.

“Bitch! Stupid bitch, stupid bitch.”

She saw his face swimming over her, the mad fury in his eyes. “This is the way you want it? You want a bullet in the brain? Maybe that’s how it was always supposed to be.”

She stared at the gun, mildly puzzled. Why did it look so small? Like it was a hundred miles away.

Then it was gone. She heard shouting, thought something crashed, but it was all, again, so far away. Nothing really to do with her. Not when she was floating away.

—

L
ook at me! Damn it, Naomi, open your eyes. You fucking stay with me.”

Pain seared back, like a brand in her side. She cried out against it, her eyes wheeling open.

“That got your attention. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I have to keep pressure on it.” Xander fixed his mouth on hers. “I have to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“Xander.” She lifted a hand that didn’t feel like her own, touched his temple. “You’re bleeding. You’re bleeding a lot.”

“Yeah. You, too. Help’s coming. You just look at me. You talk to me.”

“Were you in an accident?”

“No. You’re going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“I can’t . . .” Memory flooded back, washing through the pain. “Tag. The dog. The dog.”

“Stay down, stay still! He’s okay. He’s going to be okay, too. Hear that? Hear the sirens? Help’s coming.”

“He was in the house. He was going to shoot the dog. I couldn’t let him shoot the dog. He . . . the gun. He has a gun.”

“Not anymore. Don’t worry about him. Broke his nose for you,” Xander murmured, laying his brow to hers.

“I was going to fight. Going to try, but the dog—he came to save me. I need to close my eyes.”

“No, you don’t. You need to look at me. You need to stay awake. Back here!” he shouted. “Hurry, for Christ’s sake. I can’t stop the bleeding.”

“High school nerd.”

“What?”

“Chaffins. Anson Chaffins. Tell Mason,” she said, and slid away.

—

S
he went in and out in the ambulance, caught snippets of words, mixed voices. She felt Xander’s hand clutching hers, and once turned her head and swore she saw the dog on a gurney beside hers.

“Anson Chaffins,” she said again.

“Got it. They got it. They got him. Just take it easy.”

She surfaced again, moving fast, lights blurring overhead, voices, more voices shouting out medical terms like an episode of
Grey’s Anatomy
.

She heard, “I’m going to give you something for the pain.”

And said, “Oh, yes. Yes, please.”

—

F
urious they’d blocked him from going with Naomi, Xander argued with the burly nurse who stood in his way. If she’d been a man, he’d have decked her.

He considered doing it anyway.

“You need to get that dog out of here, and you need that head wound examined.”

“The dog’s hurt. He’s been shot, for God’s sake.”

“I’ll give you the number for an emergency veterinary clinic. But you have to—”

“You’re going to take care of this dog.”

“That’s exactly right.” Mason, face set, strode up, his ID held out. “The bullet is evidence, and needs to be removed. The dog is a material witness, and needs to be treated immediately.”

“He’s a fucking hero.”

“That’s right. I suggest you get a doctor, get this dog prepped for surgery, or I swear, I’ll arrest you for obstructing a federal investigation.”

They wouldn’t let him in with Naomi, but loosened up enough to let him sit with the dog while they removed the bullet, treated the wound. And while they cleaned his own wound, stitched up his scalp.

“He’s going to be fine.”

The surgeon who’d volunteered for the procedure neatly closed Tag’s wound.

“It’s going to be sore, and he’ll limp for a few days. I’ve given him some antibiotics, and I’ll write up a report for your vet. She should do a follow-up.”

“Thanks.”

“He’ll sleep another hour, I’d say. He looks like a good dog.”

“He’s a damn good dog. Please, God, somebody find out about Naomi. Naomi Carson. Just—shit!”

“I need you to hold still.” The intern doing the scalp stitching looked at the surgeon.

“She’s doing a good job, just give her a few more minutes. I’ll check on Ms. Carson.”

Before he could, Mason came in. “How’s it going?”

“Both patients are doing well. One more cooperative than the other.”

“Where is she? How is she? Fuck! Are you mining for gold in my scalp?”

“They’re working on her. But she’s going to be fine. It was through-and-through. Through her, into Tag.”

“Your evidence, Special Agent.”

“Thanks.” Mason took the dish with the spent bullet.

“She lost a lot of blood, and a bullet never does you a favor, but it didn’t hit any organs. Just the meat. They’re going to want to keep her overnight. Probably want to do the same with you.”

Xander readied for battle if need be, because his mind was set. “I’m staying with her. So’s the dog.”

“Already arranged. Are you up to giving me a statement? It can wait.”

“I’m okay. Just tell me, where’s this Chaffins now?”

“In a cell in Sunrise Cove, but officially in federal custody. He’s been examined by a doctor, and his injuries treated. Among other things, you broke his nose, knocked out three of his teeth, cracked a couple ribs.”

“Did I?” Xander looked down at his hand, flexed his aching fingers, his raw and swollen knuckles.

“Thanks. I know you love her, but I loved her first, so thanks for saving my sister’s life.”

“No problem.”

Mason pulled up a stool. “Okay, tell me what happened.”

He ran it through.

“I should’ve seen it coming. I did see it, but too late. I actually bought the little-Bobby-in-the-backseat bullshit. And when I came to, I knew he’d gone after her. I called you while I drove back. Pulled in behind his damn camper, ran for the house. I heard the gunshot.”

He stopped, closed his eyes. “I heard the shot. I heard her scream. When I ran in he was standing over her, ranting, had the gun pointed at her head. I pulled him off, beat him unconscious. She and the dog were lying there, bleeding. So much blood. I grabbed a couple of dish towels and put pressure on her side—like they always say you’re supposed to. It hurt her. I hurt her.”

“He hurt her,” Mason corrected.

—

S
he dreamed she swam, slow and lazy, through the palest of pale blue water. Surfaced and floated, skimmed under to glide. Up and down, in and out, with everything warm and watery.

Once in the dream, beavers cut down trees with chain saws, deep, rhythmic buzzing. She surfaced, thought she saw the dog snoring away on a cot beside her.

She laughed in her sleep—heard Xander’s voice.
Wouldn’t mind some of whatever they gave you.

And smiling, slid under again.

She thought of moonlight falling in slants over the bed, how it felt to make love with him over and under those moonlit slants.

Opening her eyes, she saw it was sunlight, sliding through the slats over the window.

“There she is. Are you staying with me this time around?”

She turned her head, met Xander’s eyes.

He looked so tired, she thought, and pale under the scruff. Bruised—badly—on the temple.

“We . . . had an accident.”

“Not exactly.”

“I can’t remember what . . .” She turned her head again, saw Tag
watching her from a cot. “He is sleeping on a cot. And we’re . . . we’re in the hospital. He shot me. He shot us.”

“Simmer down.” Xander pressed a hand on her shoulder, kept her in place. “Anson Chaffins.”

“Yes. Yes, I remember. I remember all of it. He got in the house.”

“Bedroom. You let the dog out, he waited, came in that way, caught you in the kitchen. Mason said you went to school with him.”

“Yes. He was a year ahead of me. I only got to know him for a few months—yearbook committee, school newspaper. But he was with me when I found my mother. He said—he told me—it was his revelation. He said it was wiring, he and my father, both born to be what they are. And seeing my mother’s body opened things up for him. Excited him. All this time . . .”

“Don’t worry about it now.”

“How bad am I hurt? Don’t sugarcoat it.”

“Well, baby, they did the best they could.” And laughed when her mouth fell open. “That ought to cure some of that pessimism. You’re fine. As fine as anybody who’s been shot. Hit your left side, just above the waist, pinched right through, and straight into the dog’s right hindquarters. He’s fine, too. I’m saying right now, no Cone of Shame, not for him.”

“No Cone of Shame.” She reached out, stroked the dog. “Not ever. He can have the Pants of Heroism.”

“You jumped in front of the dog, didn’t you? He was going to shoot the dog, and you jumped in front of him.”

“Wouldn’t you have done the same?”

“Yeah.” Shakier than he wanted to be, Xander blew out a breath. “Yeah, probably. Idiots.”

“How did you get hurt? Your head. You were covered with blood.”

“Head wounds bleed a lot.”

“He was the call—that’s it. The breakdown. It was him. He could’ve killed you.”

“He didn’t.”

“He could have—”

“He didn’t. Get used to it.” He pulled her hand to his lips, held it there, rocked for a moment. “I’ve still got to get used to him nearly killing you—but not. We’re both right here. Jesus, Naomi. Jesus, I didn’t know I could be that scared and live through it. I didn’t know how bad it was. I couldn’t tell, just you lying there, and the blood.”

“Did you save me?”

He pressed his lips to her hand again. “You’d have done the same for me.”

“Yeah. Probably. We’re both right here.” She smiled as Tag nosed under her other hand. “We’re all three right here. And Chaffins?”