Murder, Madness & Love (Detective Quaid Mysteries #1) Page 10

  “I wore one the night I solved my first case, and the original sweatshirt fell apart several years ago. People keep giving them to me, and now I have a lifetime supply. I’m thirty-five and, yes, a little superstitious. I could change things, but why tempt fate?” He shrugged, feeling a little self-conscious. She had noticed the way he dressed, and he wondered what else had caught her attention. Steven opened his mouth to continue, but when she closed her eyes, and her complexion went white, he became concerned.

  “Sarah, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, really, I’m fine.”

  She didn’t look fine, though. Steven extended his hand to help her from the Jacuzzi. She ignored it, preferring to exit on her own two legs.

  “Maybe you should rest.”

  “I’ll get dressed, and see you downstairs.” She quickly left the room.

  Steven interpreted her response as rejection. Talk about cold. To assuage his ego, he convinced himself he was trying to befriend her, to understand her, and to get her to share something—anything. But then she had simply dismissed him. John had used the term aloof when he described Sarah, and Steven tried hard to think of a better term. He knew sociopaths could put on the charm and convince the most hardened cynic they were innocent. Sarah wasn’t even trying. Her confidence, smugness, and her attitude in general irritated him. He had to get some fresh air.

  “I’m going back to town.” Steven nodded a goodbye to a surprised Eddie on his way out the door. “I’ll return this evening with John.”

  Confused, first by Scott and his presence this afternoon, and now by Steven, Sarah recalled her mistake. She should never have let him get close. Either of them, really.

  She had often thought about what a reunion with Scott would be like. Alone, she had wondered if his powerful arms would feel the way she remembered, or if her memories were a fantasy, romanticized by time. Today, she knew. Scott could still make her heart miss a few beats, and his arms, his kiss, were just as potent as she recalled.

  Yet, when she had finally looked into his dark brown eyes, they burned with anger. Unsure, but curious about the source, she’d continued with the dance. Then she remembered his delicate ego. In between slow numbers, Scott kept his arms around her and his hold was restrictive, uncomfortable. Sarah should have guessed his motives, but what did he gain by embarrassing her?

  The kiss, she had to admit, had gotten to her. She felt something deep—something she had not experienced since, well since before Michael’s death. Without her head’s consent, her body had responded. Seventeen going on eighteen, again, and unprepared for him, she fell for the promise and forgot the anger she saw in his eyes and heard in his voice. She forgot everything—murder, the valentines, her stalker, even the other board members. Sarah needed to forget; she wanted an escape, and he had provided her with exactly what she desired. She’d made things worse by slapping him.

  Before she could figure out how to deal with Scott, the condescending detective had tried to make nice. Sarah had been watching him closely while he spoke, and he sounded sincere, but somehow she just knew he was lying. Just like the others, he judged her on rumor and gossip. Exhaustion and confusion gripped her. She didn’t want to think about it anymore, and she’d tired of playing their games. Doubt crept into her mind as Sarah recalled the sting of Scott’s words and the look Steven gave her the moment he recognized her. Her response had immediately been fear, doubt, and shame.

  Sarah took her time getting dressed. She braided her hair, and put on a below-the-knee jean skirt, a white form fitting cotton blouse, and moccasins. Sarah wanted to avoid another confrontation; she wanted them all to go away. She had never experienced such isolation: Solitude was one thing, but feeling alone in a crowd was another. The thought of going downstairs, to share a room with a man who believed she was a killer, sickened her.

  But surprisingly, once downstairs, she found Eddie alone. He’d built a fire and set up the chessboard, and they settled down for what she hoped would be a quiet evening. She managed to get Eddie to talk about himself, and soon he shared thoughts he had never discussed, even with his girlfriend.

  Enjoying all the attention, he soon realized the conversation was one-sided.

  “Sarah, can I ask you a personal question?”

  Concentrating on her next move, she smiled. “Sure.”

  “Why don’t you talk about what’s happened? You go on every day with no change. There’s a hunt for a murderer who’s targeting you, and you don’t even appear aware of it. Just last night we received the last valentine, and you reacted by getting ready for a party, then everything this morning, and even now. John said your father taught you not to show your emotions, but you react so differently from other women. Alexis cries at commercials…”

  He stopped when he saw a sudden change in her demeanor. The vibrant, happy young woman appeared haunted. She suddenly stood from the sofa and went to the fireplace. Eddie saw her shiver.

  “Please, Sarah, I didn’t mean to upset you. Just forget I asked.”

  “It’s all right, really. I know what you mean.” Her voice was quiet and soft. “You’re right. I’ve never been good at showing how I feel. I’m not even sure I know how, but I refuse to let this stalker win. Right now, it’s my only weapon. My father thought tears were an excuse for the inability to handle problems. He thought it was a sin to show weakness. I’m coping with all this, because of what he taught me—the art of suppression and denial. Now, I’m an expert, at least in public. When I’m alone, my emotions take over. After my mom and dad died, I went to a fortuneteller. I wanted her to tell me about the future. I needed to believe that I had a future. I’ve forgotten most of what she said, but one thing stayed with me: She called me a ‘plastic person.’ I never understood what she meant or maybe I did, but denied it, until recently.”

  She paused, and Eddie knew she looked inside. He remained silent to allow her to continue.

  “When I look back, I can honestly say I’ve lived my life like a department-store mannequin, changing to fit the styles, the seasons, or just the decor. When I was younger, I tried so hard to be what mom—but especially dad—wanted. I thought if I did all the right things, you know like excelling in school, not making a fuss when they left, waiting patiently for their return, that somehow all that would make them love me more, or keep them from leaving for months at a time. Pretty silly when you think about it, but I was a kid.”

  “Is that why you adopted our parents?”

  She smiled. “I loved your family, family dinners, holiday gatherings, all the celebrations. They were magical, and yes, it’s something I always wanted with my family.”

  Eddie recalled their early years. Even then, she pretended happiness when her heart was breaking. He watched her one day as her parents said goodbye. She didn’t know he was there but she stood on the street for the longest time, first watching their call pull away and then she just stared down the road as the car disappeared over the horizon. He thought she would stand there waiting until they returned if no one bothered her.

  “When I fell in love for the first time, I wanted to be everything he wanted me to be. He wanted too much. In college, I struggled to pass business courses, because a career meant liberation. Then, with Michael, for the first time, I could just be myself. He accepted me, loved me. That kind of love was a revelation, and, because of him, I rediscovered my art. Michael and I had plans for a real future. I had everything I’d ever wanted, but I wanted too much. After he…” She cleared her throat. “After Michael died, I disappeared. I totally lost me, and, honestly, I’m still searching. I thought work, I thought change, I thought… but now…”

  She stopped talking, and her silence made Eddie uncomfortable, because he had no response.

  “Looking at the situation now, I see a wind-up doll, a puppet on a string, a plastic person, just as the fortune teller described. For some reason, I thought love depended on how well I fit the role. For my parents, the perfect daughter. For my beau, the perfect lov
er, but the one time I allowed myself the freedom to be me, happier than I’ve ever been in my life, my husband, the man who taught me love, he’s taken from me, and now I wonder if I did something — is his death my fault?” She turned and finally looked at Eddie. “Did I kill my husband?”

  Her question caught him off guard. He shook his head, but offered her nothing. He felt inadequate, stupid.

  She grinned. “I don’t have the answer, either, Eddie.”

  Eddie could see her confusion, but he saw her strength. Her knuckles turned white as she clenched her fists, but more so, he heard it in the humor of her response, and the truth in the assessment of her life.

  “Everything in life has a price.” She relaxed her stance, clearly surrendering to reality. “You’re right, John’s right, even Quaid is right. I’m cold, unemotional—detached. No wonder everyone believes I killed Michael. I believe I killed Michael.” She turned to the door.

  “No, that’s not —I didn’t—” Eddie wasn’t sure how to get her to forget his intrusive question.

  “Come with me. Maybe you have a right to know the whole truth.”

  She sprinted up the steps, and Eddie followed. Sarah stopped at the door of her studio, and he sensed her hesitation. He saw her mentally debating her decision, but with a deep sigh, Sarah reached over the door for the key.

  “I don’t usually keep the door locked, but my work has been too personal.”

  The room was large and neat, with a desk to the right, surrounded by tall bookcases, and a few antique knick-knacks. The other part of the room was obviously an artist’s workspace. Several paintings rested on easels. Others were propped against the walls and windows, each shrouded from view.

  Sarah started to uncover the paintings. “Maybe this will explain what I’ve failed to.”

  “Sarah you don’t—” Eddie stopped talking, his attention diverted by her creations. Each painting was different, yet similar in style and mood. The colors were dark—grays, blues, and black. They were haunting—sinister.

  “Nightmares. This is what I see when I dream. The terror I keep inside until I paint it. Each night, as long as I’ve made a recording, the dream changes. My dreams have become more frightening, and the stalker is getting closer. When sleeps eludes me and fear takes over, I exorcise my demons by trapping them on canvas. This is how I deal with pain. This is how I deal with life.”

  “My god, these are amazing!”

  “It’s all I know. Now, some maniac expects me to be the perfect victim. And I’m fighting, the only way I know how. Fear is so immobilizing, and by denying, by pretending, at least on the surface, I have control, in circumstances where there is no control. He expects me to react to his torture the way a puppeteer expects the marionette to dance when he pulls the strings. I can’t. For sanity’s sake, I can’t…”

  She let him look, but turned her back to the paintings. Her anguish, on canvas—her fears, her tears, even her tormentor. He had no face, but he had great power over her. Even Eddie could feel him. Snow-covered streets were black with his presence. Bright, red blood marred an otherwise unspoiled snow-covered park. Snow angels pressed into the hillside bled from wounds similar to the ones Debra and Rhonda suffered.

  Another painting showed a colorless room, exaggerated in size, with a cot. On the outside, life looked colorful and normal, yet a naked young woman sat huddled in the corner, her posture, and expression conveying her confusion. With her head down, she hugged her knees to her chest, and golden hair contrasted sharply with the darkness and gloom surrounding her. Overwhelmed by her world, and yet aware her tormentor had control.

  There were others not so easy to describe. These, he realized, were more haunting than the rest. The one that caught his attention, though, featured a black widow spider in a web surrounded by the dead bodies of women encapsulated in separate cocoons of death. Their only features visible, blond hair and green eyes.

  Eddie couldn’t believe what he saw. He had several of Sarah’s paintings and had seen a great number more, but none of them came close to these. Sarah could interpret life with such brilliant excitement, filling a two-dimensional scene with emotion and life. These paintings were another view of life, the colorless horror of murder and terror. Sarah’s creativity clearly came from her spirit, and these paintings displayed a soul in torment.

  “Sarah, I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

  He realized how difficult this was, and he respected her for the courage it took to share it. He delicately replaced the covers, and they left the studio. Eddie had no words. Sarah appeared emotionally drained, and he knew that anything he could think to say would be inadequate.

  “No, it’s fine. You’ve every right to know the individual you’re trying to protect. But your effort feels useless. What you do, what you try, won’t matter. He’ll find me. In my dreams, the monster is getting closer, and I know what I dream is real. I began having nightmares long before I knew he killed Debra or Rhonda, long before anyone knew he was killing me.”

  Her voice had a haunted quality, like her paintings.

  “He’s in no hurry. I know. Somehow, I know.” Fear had her in its grasp. Eddie watched her fight to deny the horror that had wound its way into her life.

  He believed her. Reassurance seemed pointless. He wanted to put his arm around her, to offer comfort, but she had closed up on him again. With arms tightly folded, Sarah had disappeared into herself, and he knew he had to let her go for now. Everyone dealt with a crisis, or with grief, differently, and Sarah handled hers through her art. Though he was concerned, Eddie knew he had to give her the freedom to be herself.

  “Listen,” she said, her tone suddenly bright again. “How about some hot chocolate?”

  Her emotional mask was secure and in place. Even her voice had changed. Eddie marveled at her ability to go from such a dark mood into one of bright indifference so quickly.

  “Sure, I’ll get it.”

  “No, go build up the fire. Set up another game. I’ll join you in a few moments.”

  She left him and went to the kitchen. Raw from having revealed so much of herself, Sarah went straight to the mudroom. In a trance, she began singing, put on a jacket and boots, and walked into the cold night air.

  A half-moon bathed the path to her favorite place. Eagle’s Nest sat on the highest point of her property. She could imagine the honorable bird sheltering in the high rocks, looking down at the human race with a sense of pity, mixed with hope. The outlook gave her the perfect spot to go when she needed to be alone, like now, when life seemed overwhelming. Sharing her secret with Eddie cost her emotionally—trust always did—and yet sharing the truth felt freeing, too. She wanted to consider the Catch-22 in peace.

  Sarah reached her favorite spot, and, with a sigh, she imagined releasing her emotions to the cosmos. She visualized the burdens she carried floating away on the wind. Sarah was light and free. Imagining herself as an eagle, she flew from the trees and soared high in the sky.

  From above, Anchorage gave the impression of being a toy town: its streets and buildings laid out in the pattern forged by the founders. She flew to the mountains, away from civilization, and away from the influence of man. Northern lights danced across the sky to the music of angels singing, and she flew up to join them. Her wings touched their bright colors, they shied away, and then the lights showed a curiosity of their own. They came back, and playfully touched her. She flew toward the moon, and the aurora borealis grabbed on to the tips of her wings. Like the tail of a comet, they gathered around her and soared heavenward. Brilliant colors of red, green, and yellow circled the sky. The land below appeared black and white. No color existed on earth, but the sky appeared as a brilliant kaleidoscope. The night’s color, a deep purple, and the stars’ ice blue, deep yellow, and shimmering red. Soaring to the heights, she experienced exhilaration. No pain could reach her. No torment existed—only beauty, color, and freedom. She did not feel the cold. She soared, and the aurora danced while the angels s
ang.

  “What a beautiful spot. I see why you came here.” Steven Quaid’s voice announced his trespass.

  With a crash, she stood on the earth again, her flight of fantasy gone, her peace shattered. Sarah did not want to share this special place with him. She turned and started back to the house without acknowledging him, and Steven followed.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you come here often?” He fell into step beside her.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t let people in easily, do you?”

  She could hear the irritation in his voice, and it pleased her a bit.

  “No.”

  “Not too smart, coming out here alone. I thought you cared for Eddie.”

  “I do. Besides, he knew within minutes exactly where I was, unless Ethan and Tom are asleep at their post.”

  “You know about the other guards?” He sounded surprised.

  “Believe it or not, detective, I’m no fool.

  Sarah did not trust Steven Quaid. He wanted to arrest her, and on no logical basis. She knew John had men outside, and, the minute she left the house, they had called to tell Eddie. How else had Steven known where to find her? She also knew Eddie would forgive her. However, she refused to explain herself to such a condescending man as Steven. Sarah quickened her pace and walked ahead, eager to be away from him.

  Steven caught up with her, though, stepping into her path. “What’s the matter with you? I’ve tried my damnedest to get to know you, but you keep pulling away. Why? Why won’t you talk to me?”

  “Mr. Quaid, please stop playing games. You don’t want to know me. You want to catch a murderer—not just the one who killed those young women, but me, the black widow. Do you actually imagine a friendship between us—suddenly I’ll feel guilty because you’ve been so understanding, then what? I spontaneously confess. Get real. If you don’t mind, Mr. Quaid, I can live without the small talk.” No longer interested in hiding her anger, she bypassed him and hurried down the path once more.