A Perfect Darkness (11 page)

Eric walked closer to him. “I didn't kill Candy. Look, this arson thing, it's bogus because someone higher up is after me. After me and Petra. Something's going on here, something we don't understand. Lucas is missing.”

Rick rolled his eyes. “And the paranoia continues. I thought we'd gotten past that.”

“This is real.”

“It is, Dad,” Petra said.

He finally looked at her. “Now you've got her convinced.”

Eric flattened his hands on the island's counter. “I don't want to tell you too much. I don't want you involved, but I need some answers. Twenty years ago we lived in Fort Meade. Where Mom died. What did you do for a living then?”

“What I've been doing all my life, engineering.”

“What about Mom? You never want to talk about her or what happened that day.”

He picked up a knife and chopped a potato in half. “And I'm not talking about it now.”

Petra stepped closer and implored with her eyes. “Daddy, please.” He was actually her stepfather. Her mother married him when she was still a baby, but he had always treated her like his own.

Rick set his knife down again. “Wait a minute. You think that whatever you're hung up in has something to do with your mother?”

“She was our mom,” she continued, pinching Eric before he could speak. “We shouldn't need a reason to ask.”

“I told you, she worked with a chemical company. There was a fire in the lab.”

He shut her out as he always did when the subject of his wife's death came up. He continued cutting the potatoes with deliberate motions.

“What company?”

“Maryland Chemical Corporation or something like that. They're not in business anymore.”

“What was she working on?” Eric asked.

“I can't say. I mean, I don't remember.”

Eric edged closer. “You
can't
say?”

“I'm not having this discussion with you. It's painful and it's in the past, where it needs to stay.”

Eric slapped his hand down, hitting the cutting board and making the potato cubes jump. “You can't say. Because I'm damned sure you would know what she was working on that caused her to die in that horrible way.”

Petra said softly, “Whatever it was, it's been a long time. It's okay to tell us.”

Her father didn't take his gaze off the potatoes spilled on the counter.

“The money,” Eric said after a moment of silence. He turned to Petra. “The big life insurance settlement Dad got after her death. Our trust funds. It was hush money.”

Rick's face reddened as he met Eric's glare. “Get out of here or I'll call the cops.”

Eric stared him down. “You wouldn't do that. I'm your son.”

Rick held firm, not intimidated by his hulking son. His mouth trembled. “No, you're not. Your mother had an affair when she was…working at the chemical company. I still raised you as my own, even after your mother died. Even after the fire. But I'm not going to harbor a criminal, no matter whose name he carries.”

Petra saw Eric's face harden, but for a second she also saw something in his eyes soften with pain. He spun around. “I'm looking through Mom's things.”

He went down to the basement, but Petra remained. She cracked her knuckles. “Is it true?”

Dad nodded, not meeting her eyes. “I never intended to tell him. But I don't know who he is anymore. Whatever schizophrenic scenario he's cooked up, stay out of it. And get him out of here or I will call the police.”

Petra flew down the stairs and saw Eric tearing open boxes. “I remember finding a box down here years ago,” he said. “Dad—that man up there—told me to leave it alone.”

She touched his shoulder. “Eric, I'm sorry—”

He pushed her hand away. “Don't. Don't touch me.” He tore open another box and stopped. “This is it. Here's a picture of Mom and…him. Look, her death certificate.”

Nothing odd there. He kept digging until he came across a yellowed envelope with the return address that read
SPP,
located in Washington, D.C. He pulled out the letter from Calvin Hobson, president of the Society for Psychic Phenomena.

While Petra was reading, she picked up sounds in the kitchen. She didn't have many skills, beyond the dumb luck of her beauty, but her heightened sense of hearing was definitely one. She could hear her father on the phone.

“Yes, he's here now. In the basement…No, I don't think he's armed, but I don't know for sure.”

She squeezed Eric's arm. “Dad just called the police.”

A
my tried to act calm. Not easy, considering Spy Guy was probably armed. Even though he wasn't much larger than she was, he'd had all kinds of training to take down armed criminals.

This isn't happening, right? Not happening, and yet, here's this guy, and I've got this bizarre urge to jump up in the air and slow-mo kick him in the nuts
. The mental picture actually made her smile.

He sneered. “Are you enjoying this, you sneaky little bitch? You think this is a
game
?”

Her eyes widened. “Are you allowed to talk to me like that? Is that in your etiquette manual?”

The menacing expression wilted for a moment, and that gave her the juice to say, “You're probably a greenie just out of training and pretty pissed that a
girl
made you—isn't that how they say it?—and then ditched you.” Her derisive gaze swept him from head to toe. “Then again, maybe you're used to that.”

The menace returned, flushing his face red. He surprised her by pushing her against the wall with his forearm pressed against her throat. “You don't know what you're dealing with.”

“Do you?” she rasped. “Do you even know what this is about?”

She could tell by the look on his face that he didn't; he was a peon following orders, but he was a pissed-off peon with a wounded male ego. Amy didn't know where this attitude, or her inner strength, was coming from or whether it would help or hurt. She was angry enough not to care at the moment.

“I know better than to mess around with the CIA,” he growled, pressing harder against her throat and digging his fingers into her shoulder. “And so will you.”

So the CIA
was
involved.

A gasp jerked their attention to a woman who had walked in with her basket of laundry. Amy didn't think. Instinct drove her knee into his balls. He doubled over, and she shoved him backward. He fell against the washer and slid to the floor, hands clutching his groin.

“Should I call the police?” the woman asked as Amy backed toward the entrance.

“No.” Definitely not. “Creepy guy's been stalking me for the last two days. I don't think he'll mess with me again.”

The woman backstepped, obviously deciding to choose another time to do her laundry, a time when a red-faced man wasn't writhing on the floor muttering vicious expletives.

Amy turned and walked right into Ozzie, impeccably groomed as always, who had obviously seen some or all of that charming little scene. She kept walking, her heartbeat throbbing in her throat.

Ozzie matched her stride. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

“What was that about?”

“Just like I said, some creep—”

He halted her, putting his hands on her shoulders. Still bristling with adrenaline, she shot an irritated look at his grip on her.

He backed off physically. Not verbally. “That raid on your apartment, it wasn't a mistake, was it? Amy, I'm your friend. You're obviously”—he glanced back to the Laundromat where Spy Guy was hobbling out—“in trouble,” he finished with a whisper. “Let me help. I'm up for adventure. I know you're not into drugs or weapons smuggling or anything. You're an innocent citizen being targeted by thugs because…because you saw files you shouldn't have. I'm right, aren't I?”

He had a vivid imagination, but that wasn't a bad cover story he'd offered. Amy lowered her voice. “You figured it out, Oz. I appreciate your willingness to help, but you have to stay out of this.”

She watched Spy Guy as he angled his body onto a bench and tried to look tough as he stared her down from a distance. She felt his hatred just as she saw it in his spiked glow that verged on purple—violent intent.

“You're up for adventure?” she asked.

“Yes!”

“Good. I may…have to go away for a while. Will you take care of Orn'ry?”

He rolled his eyes. “No way. That bird hates me.”

“Please, Oz. You said you'd help.”

His glow was a vivid turquoise color. Worry. “God, what are you involved in?”

“Gotta go.”

She turned toward her apartment, sending one last glance at Ozzie and then at Spy Guy, her feelings going
from sad to angry. A thought popped into her mind:
Won't Cyrus be proud of me for handling that situation?
That pride soured when reality reminded her: No, he wouldn't be so happy that she'd just nailed one of his guys in the nuts.

She locked the door behind her and leaned against it. Her body trembled from both fear and anger and…pride. Yes, pride. Her own pride, not anyone else's. That would have to do.

She turned on the television for something to distract her. The news was on. It was already dinnertime and she hadn't eaten all day. She went to the fridge and searched for something substantive. She found a container of hummus and some organic pita chips and dug in. Yuck. She was going for the Ben and Jerry's when she got the gooey stuff down. She'd liked the idea of being earth-conscious and healthy…at least in theory.

The television droned on about the shift in weather in the Midwest and then on to the next story and the next as she scarfed New York Super Fudge Chunk.

“An Annapolis man is wanted for arson in a January fire. Eric Aruda was brought in for questioning at the time, but authorities didn't have enough evidence.”

Amy shot from the kitchen to the living room, where she stood rigid as Eric's driver's license picture flashed on the screen in front of a news video of the burning building. It switched to an interview with someone from the Annapolis police, who was saying, “I'm not at liberty to discuss the evidence at this time, only that we have enough for an arrest.”

The reporter came back on. “No one was injured in the fire, which caused $400,000 in damage. The
abandoned building was owned by the Porter Canton Company, which was involved in allegations of fraud and other illicit activities. Those charges were later dropped, and it was speculated that the fire was an act of revenge. There is no record, however, of Aruda having any affiliation with the company.”

Amy dropped down onto the Grape and turned off the television when they moved on to another story. She knew he'd been questioned for arson, but she didn't know whether he'd done it or not. “This has nothing to do with that fire,” she said aloud. “And I bet if they arrest Eric, he'll disappear forever.” She thought of Lucas, the “deranged serial killer” whose arrest never made the news.

“Lucas.” The thought of him hurt, and filled her with an urgent longing at the same time. “Lucas, come to me. I need you.”

It took a while for her mind to stop buzzing over everything that had happened. Finally she drifted into sleep. In her dream, she was running from Spy Guy, down alleys glistening with rain, on a marine dock where creepy guys lurked in the dark, and then she ran right off the end and into the darkness.

“Amy.”

As she hit the water, she heard him. Everything changed, then, to a sunburnt desert with dunes and pyramids and miles of sand all around. She fell into the warm, soft sand with her arms and legs spread mid-jump. She had to catch her breath as she rolled to her side and found Lucas sitting on the sand with his wrists propped on his knees.

She ran over to him, her feet sinking in the sand. “Why did you pick a desert, for God's sake?”

His smile filled her with joy as he stood. “I always thought it would be cool to make love in the shadow of a pyramid.”

She fell into his arms, and the world felt right again. “Not your typical male fantasy.”

He smiled. “I'm not your typical male.”

“So true.” She kissed him, wanting to feel him inside her mouth and inside her body and everywhere.

But he held her away and studied her. “You're okay with this? Being with me knowing it could end anytime?”

“I have to be.”

His expression grew serious. “You, Petra, and Eric, you're all right?”

“Yes, why?”

He held her chin. “You're not trying to rescue me, right? None of you?”

“No, but…there's a problem. Eric's wanted for arson. It's a scam to bring him in.”

A shadow passed over his face. “Maybe, maybe not. He's always been fascinated by fire. His and Petra's mother burned to death during a lab experiment. He became fascinated by fire. He'd stare into fireplaces for hours, just watching the flames and, when no one was looking, throwing things into the fire. Instead of fearing it, he became drawn to it. He's never been directly linked to a fire, but he's been circumstantially tied to several. Have you talked to them?”

She couldn't lie about that. “A few times. They're worried sick about you. Lucas, what's happening to you? Please, tell me.”

He stroked her cheek. “It's better if you don't know.”

“No, it's not. I'm imagining the most horrible things. You screamed in pain when you left last time.”

“Not pain, surprise. I was in the dark, and they snapped the lights on.”

“You said they're injecting you with something. What is it doing? Tell me.”

“I don't want you thinking about me, not like that.”

“At least tell me where you are, what it's like, if you're comfortable.”

He paused but relented when he saw her determination. “I don't know where the building is; I was unconscious when they brought me here. They're doing experiments, giving me this stuff and checking my reaction to it. I saw them wheeling someone down the hall on a gurney. I was worried it was one of you. I think it's an Offspring, though.”

“Do you have a window? Can you see what's outside?”

“Just an inside one, where they can watch me. There's a small exterior window way up high, but they blocked it off.”

“These people that are doing this, they're with the CIA, I think.”

“Definitely government, which is why I don't want you involved. The head guy—I call him the Devil—is on a power trip. His secondary, well, he's not as bad. He's come in a few times, gave me a toothbrush and toothpaste.” He cradled her face in his hands. “We don't have much time. I came here to escape, to eat you up so you'll be inside me, keeping me alive.”

“Oh, Lucas,” she groaned, in both pleasure at his words and pain at what they meant.

After a long kiss, he said, “Now, for the shadow…”

Suddenly they were on a blanket in the shadow of the pyramid, her sitting on her knees facing him. He poured champagne into two glasses and handed her one. They toasted and sipped, and she choked on the bubbles. “I've never had champagne.”

“Really? There's so much I wish I could do with you.” At the agony in her eyes, he said, “Forget that. Kiss me.”

After a long, soulful kiss, she looked down and saw that she was naked. “Why am I naked and you're not?” Then she remembered that she could change the dream as well, and a moment later he was naked, too. “There, that's better.”

With a growl, he kissed her, his hands roaming over her body, drinking her in as much as his mouth was. She pushed her fear for him from her mind, not letting it steal away her pleasure. He kissed and nibbled down her neck, and as she arched, he kissed down the center of her breasts and then laved each one until she ached with need.

“Make love to me now, before something happens and you leave,” she whispered on a hoarse breath. “We can do the foreplay later. I want you inside me.”

He was also on his knees, and he sat back and pulled her astride him. Their sexual positions were always inventive; none of that missionary stuff for him. He was hard and ready, and she slid around him as their bodies connected. His hands grabbed her derriere and pulled her closer, and she gasped from the feel of him so deep inside. She moved in his rhythm, her hands on his shoulders and then in his silky hair as she tilted her head back and lost herself in him. He kissed and teased her breasts with his mouth.

She heard sounds of pleasure coming from him and then realized they were coming from her, too. Instead of feeling embarrassed, she let them vibrate through her body. Then it was more than the sounds, it was a feeling that poured through her in waves, eroding her composure and pulling her closer to sea.

He slowed his movements, pulling her down to kiss her. His breathing came raggedly as he strained to control his orgasm. “Not yet,” he whispered. He meant
hers,
not his.

“Oh, no you don't.” She started moving again, way out and way in, feeling the hard length of him moving against her vaginal wall, the tip of him pushing, stretching deliciously. She clenched her Kegel muscles, and he groaned. His fingers tightened on her behind and he pulled her hard against him. She felt his body spasm, but she was overwhelmed by the waves of pleasure crashing down on her.

He laid her down on the blanket and dove into her again. She saw him above her, and rising up behind him the pyramid, and she lost it all over again. She pulled him down and wrapped her arms and legs around him so tightly he grunted.

When he tried to lift himself up, she held him tighter.

“Amy, I don't want to crush you.”

“I want you to crush me,” she whispered hoarsely.

He pushed up and must have seen the pain in her expression. “Oh, babe…”

She placed her finger over his mouth. “You want to be with me as much as possible before…” She shook her head. “I want that, too. So don't you dare think you're going to spare me any pain by not coming to my
dreams. Either way I'm going to be devastated, so keep coming, every chance you get—”

He kissed her hard, taking her by surprise. He looked at her, all of his pain and—dare she think?—love in his eyes. “I never wanted to hurt you. I was selfish to start coming into your dreams. I justified it by telling myself you wouldn't remember by morning.”

She laughed. “Oh, I remembered them, all right, in every wonderful detail. They're the only sex I get.” She laid her palm against his cheek. “But I didn't realize they were so much more than that.”