“I am,” he said, deadpan.
She laughed. It was a throaty sound that rippled over him like warm waves, hitting every pleasure center in his brain.
“Julia, I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“The big deal is that my father has worked hard to get where he is. He’s about to be elected director of the Eternity Springs Ministries.” She put her face in her hands for a moment, then raised her gaze to his. “As unreasonable as it sounds, I think if word got out that his daughter is writing . . . explicit novels, it could hurt his chances of getting the directorship position. It’s an elected position, and he needs the votes of all twelve of the board of directors.”
John considered that for a moment. “Benjamin Wainwright is no dummy, Julia. He probably already knows—”
“He doesn’t,” she cut in. “I write under a pseudonym. There’s no way he could know.”
“So then who
does
know about the book?”
“Claudia and Jacob. My editor in New York. My agent, also in New York.”
Jacob again
, he thought. “Do you have a Web site?”
“Yes, but there’s no photograph.”
“What about an address or e-mail address for fan mail?”
“I have both. A P.O. box here in the Quarter and an e-mail address.”
“The letter you received this morning was hand delivered?”
She nodded. “I don’t know how he could have found out about the bookstore.”
“Unless he works here.”
“It wasn’t Jacob.”
John didn’t say anything. His cop’s mind was already jumping ahead to other ways some overzealous fan or religious fanatic could have found out where she lived. “Someone could have been waiting at the post office box when you picked up your mail. He could have followed you here.”
She looked a little sick. “I thought of that.”
“Have you noticed anyone suspicious? Anyone watching you? Showing a little too much interest in you or the shop?”
“No, but . . . most days I’m so busy here I wouldn’t notice.”
“You need to start being aware of your surroundings.”
“Okay.”
“Even though it’s probably already too late, next time you go to the post office, I go with you.”
She didn’t look happy about it, but she nodded. “All right.”
“I’ll drop by tomorrow and install new locks on all your doors. I’ll see what I can do to expedite that new alarm system.”
“Thank you.” She rose.
Not for the first time John had a difficult time keeping his eyes on her face. They wanted to roam. In the background rain pinged against the roof. He could hear the hiss of traffic on the street. The low rumble of thunder in the distance. Even though she was standing several feet away, he could smell the sweet, erotic scent of her perfume. The aroma of the candles she’d been burning. The leather and dust smell of the store. Looking into her eyes, he felt as if his senses were suddenly hypersensitive, and he wondered what it would be like to run his hands over her . . .
Suddenly anxious to leave, he pulled the Mustang keys from his pocket. “Keep your doors locked, including the bolts,” he said and started toward the door.
“I will.”
He had crossed to the door and set his hand on the knob when it struck him that it might be helpful for him to take a look at the book she’d written so he could decide for himself what could possibly have offended someone into threatening her.
He turned. She was still standing at the desk, watching him. “I want a copy of your book,” he said.
For an instant, she looked taken aback. She blinked at him, and even in the dim light he thought her cheeks reddened. “Oh . . . well, I think I have one on the shelf.”
He watched her walk to the third row, trying hard not to notice the way her skirt brushed against her calves. Trying even harder not to wonder what the rest of her looked like beneath all those practical clothes.
Her jacket opened as she reached for the book. He saw the curve of her breasts, the outline of her bra through her blouse, and he broke a sweat beneath his leather jacket.
She put the book in his hand. “It was released about a month ago.”
He took the book and looked at the cover. It was a trade-size paperback. The cover was colorful and sophisticated, depicting the slightly faded silhouette of a woman straddling her lover. “I’ll take a look, just so I know what we’re dealing with.”
She finally looked into his eyes. “Thank you for doing this. For—”
“Keeping your secret?” He smiled.
“For getting involved when I know you have a lot of other things on your mind.”
She was referring to the shooting, of course. No one ever came out and said “the shooting.” Invariably, they called it “The Incident” or otherwise found some euphemism, a way to dance around the cold hard fact that he’d shot and killed a fellow cop.
Not wanting to get into a topic he spent far too much time thinking about anyway, he turned and walked through the door without responding.
SIX
He stood in the shadows of the warehouse, hidden from view, his heart pounding. He could feel the sweat running between his shoulder blades beneath his coat. The hard press of fear crushing the breath from his lungs.
Twenty yards away, he could hear the perp moving toward him. Leather soles against concrete. The brush of denim against denim. The rustle of a nylon jacket.
He pressed his back hard against the crate and closed his eyes, trying to focus, trying to calm down. But his palms were sweaty as he gripped the H&K .45. And like a movie he’d seen a thousand times before, he knew what would happen next.
He stepped away from the crate. Movement at the end of the aisle drew his gaze. John dropped into a shooter’s stance, spread his legs, raised the pistol. Adrenaline stung his gut when he spotted the figure holding a sawed-off shotgun the size of a cannon.
“Police officer!” John shouted. “Drop your weapon! Do it now!”
As if in slow motion the shotgun came up. A quiver of fear ran the length of him. He heard the sound of shoes against concrete behind him. Shit, he thought, and spun in a half circle. A second man behind him raised a pistol.
Instinct kicked in. John’s finger jerked against the trigger. The .45 bucked in his hand. The explosion deafened him, made his ears ring. Cordite stung his nostrils. The man crumpled to the floor.
John swung the pistol around to the other man to find him gone. “Shit,” he muttered. “Shit!”
He hit his mike. “Shots fired! North exit! Gimme backup now!” Without waiting for a response, he started toward the downed man.
The figure lay motionless on the concrete floor in a widening pool of blood. John looked for the weapon, but there was no gun in sight. Kneeling, he set his hand against the perp’s shoulder and rolled him over.
Only it wasn’t Franklin Watts staring up at him.
Horror ripped through him at the sight of Julia Wainwright’s face. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with pain and accusation. “You did this to me,” she said.
John reached for his mike, but it was gone. There was no one to call. No one to help him. He felt for his cell phone, but that, too, was gone.
“You’re going to be all right,” he heard himself say.
“Everything you touch dies, John. You’re death.”
“No . . .”
“My blood is on your hands, just like Franklin Watts’s.”
When John looked at his hands, they were covered with blood . . .
John came awake abruptly and sat bolt upright, his heart pounding. He looked down at his hands, expecting to see blood. Relief swept through him when he saw they were clean and dry.
Just a nightmare, he told himself. But the horror of it clung to him, as dark and putrid as decaying flesh. He couldn’t get the sight out of his head of Julia’s blood on his hands.
Untangling himself from the blankets, he sat on the edge of the bed and put his face in his hands. His skin was slick with sweat. He could still feel himself shaking, both inside and out.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he rose and walked barefoot to the kitchen. He found the bottle of gin next to the toaster, uncapped it and drank straight from the bottle. The alcohol burned a path down his esophagus. It would probably eat a hole in his gut one of these days, but even an ulcer would be better than the nightmare.
He snagged a glass from the cupboard and poured. It was too much alcohol and he was drinking it for all the wrong reasons. But he downed the glass in two gulps. After
The Incident
in Chicago, the department shrink had prescribed a mild antidepressant, but after three weeks of taking it, John hadn’t liked the way it made him feel. Not that the alcohol was any better, but at least he knew what he was getting.
He hadn’t eaten dinner and could already feel the gin going to his head. Salvation, he thought, and it frightened him that he didn’t know what he’d do without the booze. Another glass and he would be well on his way to a drunken stupor. A third and he would fall back into bed and sleep like the dead until noon.
If he was lucky, anyway.
He poured a second glass and carried it to the bedroom, pausing at the dirty window to look out on the deserted street beyond. The neighborhood was derelict and fraught with crime, and not for the first time he wondered why he’d chosen this place. It was a one-bedroom dump furnished with broken-down furniture and a few mismatched dishes. But John had known what he wanted. A place where he wouldn’t be noticed. A place where he could slide into oblivion. A place where life would not intrude upon the dark place he’d landed. A place where he could decide if he wanted to go on or end it right here and now and finish his slow descent into hell.
Lowering himself onto the bed, he opened the night-stand drawer and pulled out the lockbox. His hand trembled slightly when he opened the box and peeled away the chamois cloth. A shiver moved through him when the gun came into view.
The shrink had called it hoplophobia. Fear of firearms. John called it fucking shameful. He hadn’t been able to so much as touch his own weapon since the night he’d shot and killed Franklin Watts. He was a cop, for God’s sake. A cop who couldn’t bring himself to pick up a gun was one useless son of a bitch. He wondered if he’d be able to pick it up if he took a mind to expedite his trip to hell . . .
The laugh that squeezed from his throat was a harsh sound in the utter silence of his apartment. And for the first time in his life, John acknowledged the fact that he was lonely and scared and hanging onto some frayed thread with the desperation of a man facing a fatal fall. He didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know how to reach out. Wasn’t sure he wanted to.
What a fucked up mess.
Draining the glass, he closed the box and put it back into the night table. He staggered slightly as he made his way back to the kitchen. At the counter he refilled the glass. All the way to the top this time. He drank deeply, hating it that he needed the anesthetization of alcohol just to make it through the night.
“Fuck it,” he said and took another long pull.
He closed his eyes against the slow burn of the gin. He thought about Julia Wainwright and her stalker, and it struck him that he was not capable of protecting her. You can’t even pick up your gun, Johnny-boy, came a taunting little voice. How the hell are you going to keep her safe?
He couldn’t. The admittance shamed him. When he closed his eyes, he remembered the dream. He saw the way she’d looked at him when her pretty body was covered with blood.
Everything you touch dies . . .
He wondered if Mitch could help him find some retired cop or PI who could look after her until the stalker was caught. John simply wasn’t up to the job.
He looked down at his hands, remembering the way they’d looked when they’d been covered with blood. He couldn’t bear another death on his conscience. It would kill him as effectively as any gun. Maybe that was best . . .
He picked up the glass and the bottle of gin and carried both back to his bedroom.
As usual, Julia was in a blinding rush. She should have
been back at the shop an hour ago. If it hadn’t been for her one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar Via Spigas with the three-inch heels, she’d be running instead of walking.
The day had been a whirlwind from the moment she’d left her apartment and stepped into the shop at eight o’clock that morning. A rare and used book convention at the historic Orpheum Theatre sent a steady stream of buying customers into the shop all day. At three o’clock she’d held a poetry reading and high tea for a local author. At just after six, she’d made an appearance at the convention to speak on valuating rare and old books. Afterward, she’d spent some time chatting with some of the conference goers and lost track of time. Somehow it had gotten to be nine P.M.
Claudia had been at the shop since noon. She and her boyfriend, Rory, had dinner plans. Julia didn’t know what time the reservation was for, but she was pretty sure they’d missed it.
At Canal Street, she spotted a cab and darted into the street with her hand up—something she’d learned from her editor in New York—but the cabbie sped off, leaving her in a cloud of exhaust.
Resigned to a long walk back to the shop, she crossed Canal and entered the French Quarter at Royal. It was the tail end of the dinner hour, and as always the area was abuzz with activity. Julia loved the colorful madness of French Quarter living. The contrast between the quiet sophistication of Royal, with its antique shops and high-end shopping, against the anything-goes attitude of Bourbon Street, with its topless bars, gay bars and drink-until-you-can’t-stand mentality, was keen.
She passed storefronts chock full of Mardi Gras masks, crude T-shirts, Cajun cooking spices and postcards. As she ventured deeper into the Quarter, the zydeco music gave way to the bass-drum rumble of some local rock band. Mardi Gras revelers in colorful shirts and hurricane-to-go glasses crowded the sidewalks. A lone saxophone player and a fortune-teller vied for space at the opening of a narrow courtyard. Julia took it all in, loving that she was right in the center of it.