Rest In Peace (18 page)

“Interesting. And humbling. It definitely keeps me grounded.”

“Do you feed a big crowd?”

“Not like a lot of places, thank goodness.” Dakota raised an eyebrow. “Pine Ridge is pretty affluent. But we have our share of homeless. You get to know the regulars. And then there're the ones just passing through town.”

“So when do you work?”

“Saturdays mostly. But around holidays or when it's really cold, I work during the week, too.”

“Do you think I could help out sometime?”

Looking genuinely pleased, Dakota nodded. “We'd love to have you. Would you like to stop by now and see it for yourself?”

“That'd be great.”

As Dakota continued to drive, Lucy lapsed into silence. Several minutes passed before she cast her friend a troubled look.

“Dakota, I need a job.”

She'd halfway expected shock at this announcement. At the very least, reminders about her aunt being one of the richest people in Pine Ridge. Dakota, however, kept her eyes on the road and creased her brow in thought.

“Doing what?” she asked.

“I don't know. Something useful.” Shifting in the seat, she gave her friend a hard stare. “The thing is, Irene keeps telling me to use her credit cards. I don't want to ask her for anything. But there's stuff I need. And I don't have any money of my own.”

Dakota's voice was quiet. “I understand.”

“So do you know of anything?”

“Well . . . shops around here always need part-time help around Christmas. But they usually snap up the college kids first.” She paused, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “My dad might know of something. And I'll ask around, too. There's bound to be someone out there who needs you.”

“You mean, they're just waiting for me to come along and walk right through their door?” Lucy couldn't help teasing.

“That's exactly what I mean.”

The smile faded from Lucy's face. “You're really serious.”

“Of course I am. You should know that by now.”

“So you
really
believe that somebody who needs
one
particular job done is waiting
just
for me—out of
all
the other people in the universe.”

Dakota's glance was solemn. “Lucy,” she said, “there are no coincidences.”

Lucy frowned, a sliver of uneasiness shin nying up her spine. Dakota's eyes shifted back to the windshield and stayed there the rest of the way. When they finally pulled up in front of the dry cleaner's, Lucy grabbed Dakota's arm before the girl could get out of the truck.

“Aren't you going to ask me?” she demanded.

Dakota gazed back at her, those pale blue eyes calm on Lucy's face.

“Ask you what?” Dakota murmured.

“You know. About Wanda Carver. About those weird spells I have. About what happened today.”

“Do you want me to?” Dakota countered softly.

“Well, don't you think I'm crazy like everybody else does?”

That hint of a smile drifted over Dakota's mouth. She rested her hand on Lucy's.

“You're not crazy. You're a person with many secrets. And secrets should never be told until their time. And when they're ready to be told, then you'll tell me.”

Lucy didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.

“Come on,” Dakota said, shoving open the door. “Let's go sign you up.”

 

Lucy instantly felt at home.

As Dakota showed her around the soup kitchen and introduced her to the staff, Lucy knew she'd made the right decision about volunteering. She hadn't felt such a warm, welcoming atmosphere since moving to Pine Ridge.

 

 

 

Not since her mother had died.

“See?” Dakota looked almost smug as she guided Lucy through the oversized pantry. “These are wonderful people. You fit right in.”

“Thanks for letting me join.”

“No. Thank
you
.” Taking Lucy's arm, Dakota led her to the main dining area. “Come on. I'll show you how we do the serving line. Just think of it as your friendly neighborhood buffet.”

The room was practically empty. Three elderly women in threadbare coats sat at a table in one corner, chuckling over some shared bit of gossip, their raggedy shopping bags beside them on the floor. They waved to Dakota as she passed them, then went on with their conversation. Behind the serving counter, Dakota pointed out the contents of shelves and explained portion sizes, while Lucy listened attentively. She scarcely even noticed when the front door opened and the disheveled figure slunk in.

“Okay, here's someone,” Dakota murmured, glancing toward the approaching stranger. “Perfect time to practice.”

“Now?” Lucy asked hesitantly.

“Of course, now. Here. Just do it like I showed you.”

Nodding, Lucy picked up a ladle and waited for the man to take a bowl. Dakota walked to the end of the counter where a few pieces of chocolate cake still remained in their baking pan.

“Hi,” Lucy smiled, as the man stopped in front of the huge soup kettle.

For a moment he paused there, head lowered.

And then he looked up at her.

Dear God
. . .

Lucy's fingers dug into the ladle, the smile frozen on her lips. For one panicky second she wondered if she'd actually been able to keep her face expressionless, if she'd managed to keep the revulsion from showing in her eyes.

His cheeks were scarred, this man standing before her—scarred and festering with sores. Across his forehead and through the matted beard on his chin, Lucy could see pus oozing out beneath big, wet scabs. Long hair lay over his shoulders in greasy strands. His body was rail-thin, his weary shoulders slumped, and the odor emanating from his tattered clothes made the bile rise into Lucy's throat.

She hastily tried to collect herself.

But she couldn't look away from his eyes.

His eyes
. . .

At first glance she'd guessed him to be young—somewhere in his twenties, perhaps. And yet his eyes were old.

The eyes of a very old man.

Eyes of vast experience. Intelligence and cunning.

Tragedy . . . but survival.

And as Lucy peered into their rheumy depths, she felt an unnerving shiver pass through her.

“Hi,” she heard herself mumble again.

Beneath his coarse mustache, she thought he might have smiled. Rotten teeth and foul breath.

His eyes flickered dimly . . . some emotion she couldn't read.

Lucy plunged the ladle into the pot. Her hand was trembling, and she glanced up to see the man still watching her.

His hand was trembling like her own.

Trembling as he held out his empty bowl, waiting for her to fill it.

A rush of pity went through her. Pity and an understanding of his soul.

On his face . . . in his eyes . . . through the quivering of his hand, Lucy recognized the depth of isolation. The aching loneliness and despair. The qualities that kept him distant and apart.

Before she even realized what she was doing, she'd reached across the counter, taken his bowl, and in its place, laid her hand in his.

“I'm so glad you came today,” she said softly.

He gazed at her in silence.

A penetrating silence as he slowly squeezed her hand.

Lucy's breath caught in her throat. For the space of one heartbeat, the air seemed to swell and split around her, as though something in the very atmosphere had changed.

Her head grew light.

Her skin flushed warm.

And from some very distant place came the burning familiarity of a deep, insistent ache . . .

“Lucy?”

Startled, Lucy turned toward the sound of a voice.

Dakota was standing beside her, easing the ladle from Lucy's clamped fingers.

“I think you've stirred that soup long enough,” Dakota teased. “Save some of your strength for next time.”

Lucy's eyes quickly scanned the room. Except for the three women still talking in their corner, all the tables were empty.

“Where'd he go?” Lucy asked.

“Who?”

“The man who came in to eat.”

“He left about fifteen minutes ago.” Dakota gave her a funny look. “Didn't you notice?”

“I . . . I guess not.”

“Now, that's what I call being involved in your work.” As Lucy stared down at the counter, Dakota stepped back, studying her with a thoughtful frown. “But you're upset, aren't you? About that man.”

Lucy didn't answer. Her hands felt cold now, her mind hazy—as though she'd just awakened from a dream.

“I know how you feel,” Dakota said, trying to comfort her. “It was hard for me, too, at first. Seeing people like that, and wanting so much to help them. But we
are
helping. Just for the time they're here, we
are
making a difference in their lives.”

“Who was he?” Lucy's voice was tight. “Do you know?”

“That's odd, isn't it? He must be one of those transients I was telling you about. I've never seen him around here before.”

With a sigh, Dakota gazed out the front window, out at the people and shadows mingling together in the dusk.

“You were so kind to him, Lucy. He'll probably never forget you.”

24

Her touch still clung to him.

He could still feel the pressure of her hand in his ... the softness of her skin . . . the length and slender shape of every finger.

Her warmth had flowed into him, a surge of emotions that had shocked each one of his senses into wonder.

Her concern and compassion . . . her undisguised pity . . .

And the sorrowful understanding in her eyes.

It had left him stunned and seriously shaken, a wound within the nether regions of his soul, for seldom in his lifetime had he ever known understanding.

Understanding made one vulnerable.

A lesson he'd learned well, and long ago.

So now he paced, gripped by a strange, trembling restlessness, his skin too tight, his face transforming into another. He paced like an animal in a cage, stopping only long enough to gaze out through the darkness—the deep, deceptive darkness that was his only friend.

This
was his domain, as it had always been, as it would always be.

This kingdom of the night, as black and impenetrable as his soul.

“Damn her.”

How could his plan have gone so completely awry?

“
Damn her!
”

What had he expected? Another ruse to get close to her, to hide behind the essence of his nature and see himself reflected in her eyes.

And for a single moment, he had watched her hovering there on the brink of disgust and aversion, startled by his ugliness and trying not to show it, drowning in the poison of his stare.

But then, without warning, she'd changed.

He had not expected it—not even seen it coming—when suddenly he'd
felt
it.
Felt
it like warm, soothing waves; like gentle arms reaching out to take him in, into a place of comfort and acceptance. He felt it a thousand times stronger than
anything
he'd felt from her before.

He had been so fascinated, so dismayed, he'd simply stood frozen there in place and squeezed her hand.

It had been all he could do not to moan out loud.

Moan with the desire for her, the
need
for her, the wild and desperate hunger for her.

For he had felt
her
longing, as well.

Her ache as strong as his, as deep and unfulfilled, the frantic throbbing of her pulse, and their connection so strong, so overwhelming, it had sucked his breath away . . .

Distracted his instincts . . . driven him mad.

Since he'd left the soup kitchen, he'd thought of nothing else.

He had no choice but to go to her.

Force
her if he had to, take her
now
if he had to—he would
not
wait for willingness or surrender or the right and perfect time.

But even as he crouched upon her balcony, where he'd spent so many nights before, he knew that he must hold himself in check. Remain anonymous and watchful. Infinitely patient. Disguised as whomever she needed him to be.

Like fine gray mist, he slipped inside her room.

Gazed upon her silently as she slept.

For touching him like that . . . with her hand and with her heart!

For making him remember another life in another time, times of understanding . . . times of sharing love . . .

 

 

 

No, he would
not
feel—he would
not
remember!

He would feed.

And he would kill.

And he would survive.

For these were the only things that mattered to him now.

The only things he loved and understood.

25

Lucy still couldn't understand what had happened.

Everything had been so normal, everything had been going so well—spending the afternoon with Dakota, and meeting the people at the soup kitchen, and volunteering for something that really mattered.

And then that stranger had come in.

That pathetic young man with the festering sores and the hunger in his very old eyes.

She hadn't been able to stop herself.

She'd reached out her hand and she'd touched him, and slowly she'd begun to recognize something.