Unmanned (7 page)

9

Love is like skydiving without a parachute.

—J. D. Solberg

I
LET HARLEQUIN SLEEP
on my bed that night. Okay, he sleeps on my bed every night, but sometimes he has the decency to wait until I’m asleep before sneaking onto the mattress and draping himself over my legs. Sometimes I resent it. Usually about the time the lower half of my body goes numb. But this time I was kind of grateful for his company.

It was still early when he dropped a paw over my face, inadvertently waking me up. I pushed out from under his sandpaper pad and glanced at the clock. Five forty-two. Dragging myself out of bed, I made use of the toilet while simultaneously blowing my nose, then I stumbled into the kitchen for a drink of water. I glanced out the window as I guzzled. The world was softening a little around the edges, turning a lighter shade of black. All seemed well. Traffic is nonexistent at this time of day. A cat of nondescript lineage ambled saucily down Owens Avenue, past the Sheridans’ giant jade and the dark car parked—

My mind screeched to a halt and rewound at top speed as I jerked my attention to the vehicle across the street. Whose was it? How long had it been there? Did—But recognition erupted like firecrackers in my head. It was Rivera’s Jeep. Maybe. But why? He’d left my house hours ago. Had he stayed to make sure I was safe or…

Will Swanson’s blank eyes stared at me from death. I swallowed and stared at the fuzzy shape of the Jeep until my eyes watered. Nothing changed. If he was safely locked inside, I couldn’t see him. Finally, when I felt as nutty as a Snickers bar, I pattered back into the bedroom to stare at myself in the mirror. Not good. If Rivera was alive and well, I didn’t want to scare him to death.

Five minutes later, legs freshly shaven, I considered retrieving the Glock, but if Rivera knew I had it, he’d probably throw me in jail for a couple lifetimes, so I stepped out my front door armed with nothing but Mace and a buttload of psychoses. There was still no traffic. The concrete felt rough and cool against my bare feet. The Jeep did look like his. I rounded his bumper, heart beating like a metronome, and glanced in his window.

That was when something flew at me from inside. I jerked back with a shriek and realized belatedly that Rivera had put a hand through his open window while sitting up. I also realized, with something of a shock, that I was pointing the Mace directly at his left eyeball.

He stared at me point-blank. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, tone rough-night gritty.

“
Me?
Me?” I managed to lower the Mace and my voice as I glanced toward my house, wishing like hell I’d never left it. “What are
you
doing?”

“I
was
sleeping.”

“Well…” I felt stupid and fidgety and wished quite desperately I was wearing clothes. “I noticed a vehicle out here and…you’ve always said I should be more aware of my surroundings, so when I saw an unknown car—”

“You didn’t recognize my Jeep?”

I realized, albeit belatedly, that perhaps it would be a bad idea to be out there half-naked if he were a complete, and possibly felonious, stranger. “I was pretty sure it was you, but I thought you might be…dead.”

“Dead?”

“Well…” I waved the Mace a little. “…I didn’t know. I mean…” My eyes were beginning to tear up though I didn’t really know why. Nerves stretched a little tight maybe. Or it might be that psychosis problem again. “…things have been kind of dicey lately. You know. With the dead guy and all.”

“So you came to save me?” The corner of his mouth flicked up.

Was he laughing at me? I raised the Mace a little. “Maybe I just wanted to see you barfing up your guts.”

He chuckled and got out of the car. I saw then that he was holding a gun, a small, dark pistol which he shoved into the waistband of his jeans. I’d never wanted to be a gun so much in my life.

I stepped back a pace, but his smoky gaze had already caught me and skimmed like hot whiskey down my exposed…everything. If my T-shirt had been more than twelve inches long, I would have maybe tried to cover up. “Or to screw me,” he said, and gave me a look that somehow managed to make me horny and mad all at the same time.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded. Mornings aren’t my extra-special friends. “Am I in danger? What have you found out?”

“You treat your neighbors to this every day?” he asked, and putting a hand to the small of my back, steered me toward home.

The ball of my foot found a pointy stone. I swore and hopped a couple steps. “I thought you were dead,” I repeated, but we’d already reached my door. He turned me toward him and kissed me with enough heat to weld me to the concrete.

“Not quite,” he said.

“You were guarding my house.” I breathed the words and he kissed me again.

“Lock up,” he ordered, and giving me one last, smoldering glance, turned on his heel and stalked away.

I stepped inside and locked up, but I couldn’t relax. He hadn’t answered my questions. Did that mean he’d learned I was in danger, or hadn’t learned anything? I’d been threatened half a dozen times in the past year; he’d never slept in his Jeep outside my house before.

The lack of information was driving me crazy. Who was Will Swanson? Why had he come? I paced and scowled and paced, thinking hard, and finally jumped online. But nothing came up under his name. Dredging up worrisome memories, I remembered two of the names Rivera had mentioned and tried those. I got lucky on the second one. Elijah Kaplan was born in Amarillo in 1971. His parents split when he was twelve. Ten years ago he’d been found guilty of breaking and entering and served three years at Apalachee Correctional Institution.

Pushing my chair back, I prowled around the house. He was a felon. And I had been attracted to him. Charmed by him, if I was going to be honest. What did that say about me? Our conversations played back in my mind. He’d seemed intelligent and gentle, used big words, implied that he was impressed that I was a psychologist, and…

I stopped in my tracks. “How did he know?” I whispered. Harlequin had followed me from my office. He cocked his head and lifted an inquisitive ear.

“How did he know I was a psychologist? I didn’t tell him. Or maybe I did, but no one remembers. Everyone thinks I’m a psychiatrist. And how did he know I liked big words? That I was…” The conversation rolled back in my mind. “…that I was from the Midwest?”

Had he been spying on me? If so, why? And from where? I rushed back to my computer.

It took me almost three hours to learn he had spent five years in the California State Prison in Lancaster for attempted murder.

David Hawkins, my former mentor and would-be murderer, was currently an inmate at that same institution.

Numb and shaken, I reached for the phone.

Rivera picked up on the third ring. “Yeah?”

“Did you know Swanson did time at the Lancaster state pen?” I asked.

There was a silence that said too much. In the background I could hear two men conversing. “Listen,” he said. “Things are crazy here right now. I’ll call you back when—”

My stomach twisted. “When did you find out?” I asked.

“I don’t want you anywhere near Lancaster. Do you hear me?”

“Hawkins is there,” I said, though I knew he knew. “He put Swanson up to this, didn’t he?”

I could feel him grind his teeth. “This is police business, Chrissy. Stay—”

“Police business! Are you out of your mind? This is my life. Or…” I laughed a little manically. “…my death.”

“I’m looking into it.”

“When were you going to tell me they knew each other?”

“We don’t know they did.”

“You say you want to talk? To get to know each other? And you don’t even tell me
this
?”

“You’re blowing this way out of proportion. We—”

I hung up on him.

The rest of the morning I pretended to be normal, showered, got dressed, saw clients.

It was early afternoon when Solberg bobbled into my office. He’d aged since I’d seen him three days before. He had abandoned his contact lenses for a pair of god-awful tortoiseshell glasses and there was a stain on his wrinkled tee. Apparently if Laney wasn’t in his life there was no reason to confine food to his oral cavity. I sat down at my desk, hiding the spot I’d somehow managed to collect on my spiced orange sheath. It boasted an empire waist with a little buckle under the left breast, three-quarter sleeves, and a boatneck. I looked good for a psychotic murder victim.

“Thanks for the loan,” I said, not all that thrilled to have the Porsche replaced with the Saturn.

“No problem.” He only sounded half-alive as he stared out my postage-stamp window. He looked distracted and a little jittery. Laney’s presence was the only thing that seemed to calm his frog-legged nerves. I took a deep breath and kept my toe from tapping impatiently. “You heard from Ang—” He stopped himself, knowing I found it creepy when he called her Angel. “Elaine?”

“Not for a couple days. You?”

“She called last night,” he said, but he was scowling.

“What’d she say?” I wasn’t jealous. Just because I’d shared Mom’s homemade pudding with her in the fifth grade didn’t mean she had to call me every day. I was a big girl. Big enough to have multiple men trying to kill me.

“Not much.” He turned away. “Sounded tired.”

“Well, they’re shooting action scenes. I’m sure it’s exhausting with—”

“Do you think she met someone?” he asked, jerking toward me.

“What?”

I realized suddenly that he didn’t merely look nervous, he looked hunted—eyes bloodshot, hair standing on end. People were trying to kill me every time I turned a corner, but I was pretty sure I looked serene by comparison. Was that love?

“Angel.” He said the word like a prayer. “She’s met someone else, hasn’t she?”

I shook my head and stood up, pulling myself from my own sloppy quagmire and surprising myself with my own kindness. I mean, I’m not evil or anything, but sometimes it’s hard being nice to a guy who has repeatedly propositioned you while using fourteen derivatives of the word “babe.” That, however, was pre-Laney. Post-Laney, I could have stripped naked, danced the hula, and sang “A Bushel and a Peck” with a Hungarian accent. He wouldn’t have noticed. “She’ll be back in a few weeks. Once she gets home, things will return to normal.”

“You think so?” He blinked at me like a myopic puppy as I led him toward the reception area, but before I reached my door, the front bell rang.

“I’m back,” Mandy yodeled. It was something of a high point for us. She was only twenty-five minutes late from her lunch break.

“Absolutely, and until then we have to support her,” I told Solberg. And as I escorted him to the sidewalk, I wondered rather maniacally how to sabotage my best friend’s career and regain my secretary.

A
t 7:12, two minutes after Mandy left for the night, I dialed the phone for the California State Prison. I was keyed up like a pendulum clock.

A recording answered, rambling on about career opportunities my frenetic mind refused to register, but finally I pressed 0 and a live person answered.

“Yes, hi,” I said, “I’d like to…” I cleared my throat, closed my eyes, and gave myself a little pep talk that went something like this: Do you want to be murdered by your garage? No, you don’t. Do you want to find out who tried to murder you by your garage? Yes, you do. “I’d like to talk to Dr. David Hawkins.”

“Dr. Hawkins?” The woman on the other end of the line sounded bored and maybe a little premenstrual. “Is he on staff here?”

“No. No. He’s a…he’s a murderer.” My hand was shaking a little.

There was a pause. “Who is this?” Definitely premenstrual, and maybe a little homicidal. “Is this a prank call?”

“No! No. He’s an inmate.”

“Oh.” She sounded dubious. A prank call would probably have been easier to deal with. “And you want to speak to him?”

No. Please, God, no. “Visit him,” I said, and cleared my throat. “I’d like to visit him.”

“Visitations are on Saturday and Sundays. Eight-thirty to three. Come to—”

“He tried to kill me,” I said. The statement was greeted with dead silence…no pun intended.

“What’s that?”

“I’m…umm, I’m the victim.” I don’t know why that made me feel guilty. But I’m not alone in this. Victims often take the blame.

“Oh.” Pause. “Well then, you’ll need to contact a facilitator. Hold on,” she said, and clicked me over.

In a minute a woman with a smooth Spanish accent answered. I explained the situation to her, and she explained the situation to me. California State Prison, Lancaster, did not allow victims to meet with their assailants without the victim having gone through counseling with a mediator.

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, sick to my stomach, head starting to pound, even though I was medicated to the gills. “I’m a psychologist.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s our policy. Generally, however, the victim is allowed to meet with the inmate a few months after applying.”

“Months?” I might be dead five times by then.

“Unless he doesn’t wish to speak to you, of course.”

I blinked. “He can refuse?”

“Those are his rights.”

“But…he tried to kill me.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s the law.”

I hung up, paced, and wondered rather hazily if there wasn’t some kind of law against guys trying to kill unsuspecting psychologists in their own living rooms.

By 7:23, I was as crazy as an Irishman. Crazy enough to pull Micky Goldenstone’s file from my cabinet and pace around my office with it. Fraternizing with clients is strictly forbidden in the shrink profession. And if the board finds out, they can really put a damper on your business. But getting murdered isn’t exactly a financial boon, either. My hand shook a little as I dialed the phone.

“Doc,” Micky said. He must have had caller ID.

I cleared my throat. “Hello, Micky.”

There was a pause, then, “You need to reschedule my appointment or something?”

“No,” I said, and closed my eyes. “I need a favor.”

M
y trip home afterward seemed endless. Had Hawkins known Swanson? Had he told him my preferences, my dreams? Had they chuckled over my picture? Had he hired Swanson to kill me?