A Perfect Darkness (2 page)

A
my cleaned up slowly, still stunned at the wreck of her living room and the reason behind it. Orn'ry was back in his cage clucking like a chicken, trying to get her attention.

“Not now, buddy.”

Her red bean bag chair lay in a clump, kicked into the corner; the gooseneck lamp under which she'd read—and cried over—
Wuthering Heights
twenty times was bent on the floor, bits of bulb glittering in the light. Neither the heat nor the rich cinnamon color on the walls could warm her. She kept pausing, mesmerized by the mess, feeling violated by the sight of it. The constellation globe her father had given her was dented. She should throw it away. Why did she keep it, anyway? He'd abandoned her. Guilt lanced her as it did whenever she let anger lick at her soul. With a sigh she set it back on the side table.

“Amy?” Cyrus took a sharp breath as he pushed open the door. “What the hell happened? The door lock's broken.”

The lock wasn't just broken; the metal and wood were shattered.

She made her way to the door and saw the towering man with the shaved head picking his way through the disarray. She was even too traumatized to hide the
True Confessions
magazines scattered on the floor. Red blotches of blood dripped across the wood. Her stomach clenched.

As soon as his arms went around her, she sank into his big, hard body and felt the trembling start again. Cyrus wasn't a true uncle. He'd been her father's best friend from their Army days and had kept in touch since her dad's death.

“You all right?” he asked, kissing the top of her head as he always did.

She nodded even as tears squeezed out. She fought them because she was strong, because she couldn't let herself shatter like that bulb. “I'm sorry to bother you like this.”

“That's what I'm here for.”

He led her to the couch, and didn't complain about sinking into its plum depths, as he usually did. “Tell me what happened, sweetheart. You said a man broke in? A
serial killer
?”

She grabbed up the patchwork bunny her mom had made before she was even born and shook her head. “No, he wasn't…that's what one of the men said. Lucas—that's his name, the man who broke in—he said he wouldn't hurt me, that he had to tell me things.” She pulled her fingers through brown hair that couldn't make up its mind whether it was straight or wavy and ended up somewhere in between. “He knew my name. He said I'm an Offspring and that people are watching me. He said the words, ‘your father's supposed suicide.'”

It was only then that she remembered Lucas's order not to say anything. He'd meant to those men, though. How could she not tell the only person she trusted?

“Could it be that this guy has been watching you, studying you?” Cyrus replied. “Predators do that, you know. Maybe he found out about your father and figured drawing you into some paranoid conspiracy was a way to get to you. Who knows, maybe he even believes it.”

“No, he
knew
me. I can't explain it, but the way he looked at me…I know it sounds crazy, but it was like he's…cared about me for a long time.”

“Sociopaths have incredible people skills, even though they have no emotions. He was just playing you.”

What Cyrus was saying made sense, but it didn't feel right. Was she looped to put any stock into an intruder's urgent ramblings?

She hugged one of the pillows. “Then three men broke in and shot him. They just took him out, without reading him his rights or anything. He didn't have a weapon, at least that I saw. The lead guy said they were FBI but flashed his badge so fast there was no way I could see it. Nothing on their uniforms said FBI.”

Cyrus shrugged. “Maybe you just didn't see it in the confusion.”

“Sure. That makes sense. Except…wouldn't they have asked me questions? I'm a witness. Supposedly an almost victim. They didn't even ask my name or get my phone number for a follow-up interview. They were just…gone. Poof. No, wait. He did ask if Lucas had
said
anything. Not what he'd done but what he'd said. Don't you find that odd?”

Cyrus thought it over, squirming as the Killer Grape—his name for her purple couch—sucked him down like quicksand. “Law enforcement agencies have their way of doing things.” He would know, she thought, having worked for the CIA for over twenty years. “I learned not to question things.”

Amy drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “Not even when they bust into your home, shoot someone, and haul him away without saying more than, ‘You're lucky to be alive'?” Her emotions bubbled again at the memory of Lucas crashing to the floor. “That not-questioning thing might work for you, but it doesn't work for me.”

“I admit, it sounds a bit strange. I'll look into it.”

She nodded. “Ask if he's…dead.”

“I'll find out everything I can.”

“These guys were good. I mean, not good like
good
guys, but professional. Completely controlled. Their glows were so tight to their bodies I could hardly see them.”

Cyrus was the only person who knew about her glows. For a few uncomfortable weeks he'd asked her to accompany him on interviews for new recruits and assess their glows.

He grazed her cheek with his fingers. “How about you come over to my house? Your door's busted.”

“And leave my place open to anyone who happens by? No way.” At his look of concern, she mustered up some humor and flexed her biceps. “Me strong, fight off predators.” When he wasn't convinced, she said, “How about we push the Grape in front of the door?”

“I don't like it.”

“I'll be fine. Remember, they have the guy.”

Cyrus was wrestling his way out of the couch. “I don't like you being here alone. Emotionally more than physically. You might feel brave now, but any minute the adrenaline is going to drain, and you'll fall apart.”

The tremors had already returned, but she hid them by using the arm of the couch to push herself up. “I'll call the locksmith, clean up, get some work done. I've got an urgent job to work on. It'll keep my mind focused on normal, sane things.”

Cyrus looked as though he were going to argue further, then relented. “I guess.”

She kissed his cheek, but he studied her for cracks. “You don't have to be brave all the time, you know.”

“I can't help myself.” She gave him a feeble smile. Having lost her mom when she was three and her dad at five, she'd learned not to rely on anyone being around for the long haul. Her aunt had taken her in, but Amy had felt that if she became too much of an intrusion she'd be sent away.

“It's not being brave,” he said. “You've always kept this wall around you. Do you ever think about reaching out, Amy? Do you ever need anyone?”

She thought of her dream lover, but knew she couldn't mention him. Or the fact that Cyrus, too, seemed to keep a buffer zone between them, which suited her just fine. He was the only other person, besides Lucas, whose glow she couldn't read. Cyrus had explained that he learned to shield himself from assessing eyes.

She forced a smile. “You taught me to be tough. Be proud.”

“I am proud of you. But being tough doesn't mean you have to handle everything by yourself.”

“Love you for caring,” she said, leaning in to give him a hug, feeling a crack open inside her.

He looked chagrined but hugged her back.

“Let me know as soon as you find out something,” she said.

“And you let me know when you're ready to talk. You just went through a terrifying ordeal. Talking will help you sort it out.”

She nodded, but Lucas hadn't been terrifying, except for those first few moments. It was what he'd said and what happened to him that scared her. Cyrus stepped outside and helped her push the Grape to the door. The sun was beginning to rise, coloring the sky shades of pink and gray.

Standing with the couch between them, he said, “I'll arrange for the door to be fixed. And Amy, I wouldn't mention this to anyone. We don't know what's going on here.”

After he left and the door was sealed shut, she spotted something on the floor where the couch had been. Lucas's necklace, the chain broken. The edges of the cross bit into her palm as she curled her fingers around it.

The paper. She pulled it out of her waistband and collapsed onto the couch. At the top was her name and address. Below that:

Bill Hammond, 1416 Cannon Ave.

Maybe this Bill Hammond had something to do with what Lucas was trying to tell her.

Why hadn't she told Cyrus about the paper? Because some guy who broke into her apartment told her not to trust anyone? She felt as though she was betraying him somehow. The confounding part was, she didn't
know which
him
it was: Cyrus, for not disclosing all; or Lucas, for telling Cyrus some.

Her energy drained out of her, just as Cyrus had warned. She closed her eyes, loving how the couch seemed to hold her as she sank into the velvety cushion. She needed sleep. Lots of it. But images of the night flashed through her mind, shooting her up from the couch. Surely there would be something on the news about it. She tuned the television to one of those twenty-four-hour-so-much-news-you-could-throw-up channels and listened while she worked on Bromley's hard drive.

After an hour, nothing. She needed answers to the bizarre questions Lucas had posed. She couldn't wait to find out what Cyrus dug up.

A
my was staring at a computer screen filled with jumbled file names when a knock on the door startled her. She jerked around, knocking her empty mug of coffee over. Were they back?

“Calm down, it's probably the locksmith,” she said under her breath, and hollered, “Coming!” She turned down the Staind CD she'd been listening to, nudged the couch out of the way, and pulled the door open. Orn'ry took his usual defensive stance on his perch, head down and body flattened. He hated visitors.

Not the locksmith, but Ozzie Stavros, neighbor, friend, and fellow computer geek. Even this early his thick, dark hair was combed back in glossy waves and he smelled like a fresh dose of cologne. He took in the couch barricade with a lift of a thick eyebrow. “Mrs. Cameron said she heard some commotion early this morning. She thought you were having a party.” He was looking at the shattered doorknob. “I heard that rock stuff you listen to so I knew you were awake, even though you're hardly ever up this early.”

Thank goodness Mrs. Cameron hadn't heard the
gunshot. It probably had a silencer on it. “I'm expecting a locksmith. To fix the door,” she added as he stared questioningly at the knob.

Hm, how to explain this to someone she didn't want involved? He eyed the room behind her now. She'd cleaned up most of the mess, but her gooseneck lamp was obviously disabled, and she noticed that her “Last Act of Defiance” framed poster was tilted.

“Coffee?” she asked, buying time. “Fair trade French roast.”

Ozzie was the one who'd gotten her into the organic, fair trade kick. He'd told her about those underpaid farmers in places like Uganda and Paraguay and all the chemicals used in traditional farming. She pulled the couch away enough for him to slip his small frame between it and the wall.

He looked around for more evidence of whatever had happened the night before. Ozzie was a true nose bag. Whenever he came over, he snooped through her fridge and cabinets and told her how unhealthy her food was. He grossed her out with tales of what the sinister ingredients did to her body or about the animals sacrificed in their creation. He'd ruined her for veal.

“Harry's broken,” he said, picking up one of her Geex creations. During moments of frustration or boredom, she made creatures out of obsolete computer parts. Recycling, as Ozzie had pointed out. Harry was a CD drive with circuits for eyes and a nine-pin plug for a mouth. Well, he used to be. “He was my favorite,” he said on a sigh.

“Mine, too.” She thought about going for the party lie, but he knew her better than that. “It wasn't a party.”

“I never figured you for a party girl, anyway.” With a nervous rub to his Roman nose, he added, “And I'd hope you'd invite me. So what happened?”

“FBI raid,” she said, sticking as much to the truth as possible. “Wrong address.”

“No way! They busted in your door and everything? That is so cool. How come nothing exciting ever happens to me?”

“Boring is good,” she said. “Boring is safe and sane.” She handed him a cup of coffee with a dash of hormone-free milk.

“So I should take it as a compliment the next time a girl says I'm boring?”

Someone knocked on the door and a man called out, “Locksmith.”

The man on the stoop didn't look like a locksmith. He looked like the men who had busted into her apartment. He wore a uniform lacking any logo and carried a black box. “I'm here to take care of the door,” he said, and began to step forward.

Like the three who had busted in, he had the kind of face that got lost in a crowd. She suspected that was by design.

She remained in the doorway. “You're one of them, aren't you? The FBI or whoever.”

His expression was as deadpan as the leader's had been. “I'm just here to fix the door.”

She glanced back at Ozzie, who was hovering behind her. “Oz, can you go in the kitchen and, uh, fix your coffee or something?”

“It's already…oh. Uh, I guess.” He backed away.

Amy lowered her voice and said to the man, “Look, I just want to know what's going on.”

He looked her right in the eye. “I'm just here to fix the door.”

She remained there another few moments, hoping he would relent. He was definitely one of them, and he definitely wasn't going to relent. She couldn't see his glow and wondered if the FBI also trained their people to suppress their intentions. “I want to see some ID.”

He whipped out his wallet and showed her both a driver's license and a locksmith's license under the name Michael Callahan. With a sigh she let him in.

Orn'ry was having fits over the stranger, so Amy took him into her office.

Ozzie followed. “Just to make sure everything's all right,” he said, eyeing the locksmith. Orn'ry tried to bite Ozzie every time he got close to the perch. “That bird hates me.”

“It's nothing personal. He hates everyone who isn't me.” She also peered out to check on the locksmith.

“I've heard birds live a long time.”

“Yeah, something like thirty or forty years. I don't know how old Orn'ry is. Parrots also bond to their owners, and for some reason he never bonded to anyone but me. It's weird because I'm not a bird person, but he's grown on me.”

She sat down to work on Bromley's hard drive, digging into her bag of chocolate-covered cranberries, keeping the front door in view. Callahan seemed to know what he was doing. At any rate, he was doing locksmith-type stuff.

Ozzie perched on a PC case. “You should have called me…you know, when the FBI crashed in.”

“I was fine, but thanks.”

She could see the red-orange glow of Ozzie's suppressed passion, his longing. Oh, boy. She liked him, but not in that way.

He looked around at the deep yellow walls, cat clock, and maroon drapes. “Do you have a life outside this cocoon?”

She popped a cranberry up in the air and caught it in her mouth. “I go to the store sometimes.” She heard defensiveness creeping in.

“When you don't have it delivered,” Ozzie added, raising his thick eyebrow. “I've seen the grocery delivery boy.”

“I chat online.”

“Personal forums, like, kinky sex or anything?”

“No. Computer stuff.” She'd found an affinity with computers, and in particular with fixing them. Out of high school she had apprenticed with a guy who taught her a lot. One day she discovered he was rigging his clients' computers with viruses to get more business. When she confronted him, he got the eeriest glow, and she'd quit and started Disc Angel.

“But that's not you, it's just what you do.”

“No, it's me.” It was the only thing she was good at. “I used to talk to my neighbors, but they got too nosy so I stopped.”

He actually asked, “Who—oh, I get it. Sure, fine. Be a hermit.”

“I'm a computer geek. It's what I do best.”

“I'm a geek, too, but at least I'm joining clubs, getting out there.”

She patted his shoulder. “Good for you, Oz.” When he gave her a narrow-eyed look at her patronizing tone, she added, “I visit the shelter animals.”

“But they're animals, not people.”

She didn't want to get into how she felt when she looked into the eyes of those abandoned and neglected animals and how their glows, so simple and pure, tugged at her. She didn't like feeling apologetic about her lifestyle.

“Ma'am,” the locksmith said, appearing in the doorway. “You're all set.” He walked out and closed the door behind him. She went to the window to see what kind of vehicle he drove. He was nowhere in sight.

From behind her, Ozzie said, “Amy, you need a man—”

“No, I don't.” Uh-oh, he was finally going
there.
“I'm fine and happy and perfectly content being celibate.” That line scared off potential suitors, especially since she was damned sincere.

“So you don't like, ah, sex?”

“It's fine. I just don't like dealing with guys in general. You know, that morning after, relationship stuff.”

“Are you a…lesbian?”

“No, a vibratorian.” She had to keep herself from laughing and giving away that she was just poking fun at him. “Thanks for caring, though. You're a good friend, Oz.”

“Friend,” he repeated.

“I'd love to chat more, but I've got a file to save and an hour to do it in. You know how I hate to hear a grown man cry.”

“Sure.” As he was about to leave, he turned and gave her a hug that about crushed her ribs. “Next time call me.” He let go of her just as quickly, as though she were a hot potato.

“The next time the FBI raids my apartment, you'll
be at the top of my call list.” His words touched her despite her sarcastic response.

As she sank back into her chair after locking her front door, she still felt the imprint of his arms around her. She had vague memories of being held and kissed by her parents. Her aunt, happily unmarried and independent, had never hidden the fact that she had no room in her life for a kid. Cyrus was careful about expressing affection, or perhaps he didn't have much to offer either.

She looked at her framed print of a porcupine with the words,
Aw, come on, gimme a hug!
beneath. She didn't need affection. Yes, she could have Ozzie's affection, but that wouldn't be fair to him, considering her lack of romantic feelings for him. Fair trade, after all, she thought with a smirk. No, she didn't need to be held and stroked and kissed. Except in her dreams.

 

After e-mailing Mr. Bromley his files—she'd still had to hear him cry, but at least it was tears of joy—Amy headed out to get her Days of the New CD from the car. When she opened her door, the sight of someone standing there startled a scream out of her, which made Orn'ry screech.

Cyrus blinked. “It's just me.”

She forced a smile. “Come in.”

“They fixed your door already.”

“Yes, thanks. Chatty guy with lots of personality—not. He was one of them, wasn't he?”

“It's not the kind of thing you can call a regular locksmith over for.” He gave her the usual kiss on top of her head, as affectionate as he ever dared to be. “How are you, besides jumpy?”

Her voice cracked when she said, “I'm okay. What'd you find out?”

“I talked to a friend at the FBI.” He took a seat and she perched on the coffee table in front of him.

She tried to stay calm and not look too concerned about the stalker who'd been about to eviscerate her. The stalker who'd looked at her like he would die for her. She caught herself leaning toward Cyrus as though she could hear the words faster if she were a few inches closer.

“His name is Lucas Brown. He's been on their radar for some time now in connection to fourteen brutal murders. All cute brunettes in their late teens and early twenties.” He gave her a look that added,
Like you.

“Cute?”
she said. “I'm definitely not his type.”

He crossed his arms in front of him as though accusing her of using sarcasm as a barrier. “The murders he was suspected of were scattered all over, so there wasn't any solid connection. The FBI tracked him here. He started acting erratically, and they figured he was on the hunt. They had to wait until he made a move, which he did by breaking into your apartment. If they hadn't been here…well, I don't even want to imagine.”

Why did that seem so…not right? “How come there's been nothing in the news? Lots of scandals and all manner of scumbagism, but nothing about this major serial killer the FBI apprehended.”

“Scumbagism?” His eyebrows quirked. “Do you know the kind of public outcry there would be if it was discovered a suspected killer had been in their midst and no one was warned? Of course, if they'd been warned, Lucas Brown would have fled, and they would
have had to start all over again. The FBI is keeping this low key. The important thing is that it's over.”

“What about Lucas?” She swallowed hard and pushed out the words, “Is he dead?”

“Sig 229 in the neck will do it every time.” He studied her. “It's what he said that's got you a little freaked out, isn't it? About you being a…what? Outsider?”

“It wasn't that so much as what he said about my dad's death.”

Cyrus pressed his fingers together. “All that stuff he told you was a load of bull manufactured by a sick mind. Brown has a history of psychiatric problems, including psychotic schizophrenic. Paranoia. Nonsensical ramblings about spies and phone taps.”

He gave her a sympathetic look. “I know you always had trouble believing what your father did. Me, too, for a while. But he had psychiatric problems of his own. Not like this Lucas guy, but deep depression. Remember the nightmares that sent him screaming out the door?”

She shivered. All too well. “He dreamed people were in his head trying to kill him.”

They both grew silent for a moment.

Finally Cyrus said, “Sweetheart, he loved you very much. At the end, he just wasn't thinking straight.”

That's what hurt so much. She'd grown up believing he hadn't loved her enough to push on, to get help. She believed she wasn't good enough to live for. “No matter how depressed he was, he had a five-year-old daughter who loved and needed him. It never made sense that depression would take away his sense of responsibility. If I wasn't enough to live for…okay, take your life. But at least make arrangements for
your kid. And leave a suicide note.” She looked into his eyes. “You would have told me—you'd tell me now—if there was more to my father's death, wouldn't you? My dad who showed me the stars and then shot himself where he knew I'd find him.
The dad who said he loved me and then left me!”
Anger washed into her voice.

Cyrus leaned forward, bracing his arms on his thighs. “Did Lucas imply he was murdered?”