Don't Look Back (6 page)

Only four people had the access code for the outside perimeter: Donnelly, museum trustee Dennis Montero, Cole, and himself.

At least ... only four people were
supposed
to have the access code.

He shoved his feet into a pair of Vans and went down to the kitchen, turning on the overhead light to examine the back door. Sure enough, a perfect circle had been etched into the glass pane beside the inside doorknob. The circle must have been ready to pop out, because as Peter touched the doorknob to reassure himself it was still locked, the oval of glass fell out onto the bricks and shattered.

It glinted like broken pieces of moon on the terrace.

The hair prickled on Peter's neck.
Close call. Very close
. What would have happened if he hadn't woken when he did?

But what sense did breaking into the bungalow make?

He let himself out the front and ran down the long camellia-lined drive to the gatehouse. A marked patrol car was already sitting outside the tall iron gates, exhaust turning red in the glare of its taillights. Donnelly was talking to two uniformed officers. He spotted Peter.

"They're saying you called in a prowler, Mr. Killian?” he asked as Peter reached them.

Peter nodded, out of breath from his jog. “I tried ringing down here. Why didn't you pick up?"

Donnelly looked taken aback. “I guess I didn't hear the phone ‘coz I was standing out here."

Peter turned to the cop who was listening to their exchange. “He—the prowler—ran toward the back of the property."

"Do you have a description of this prowler?"

Peter resisted the temptation to point out that the prowler would probably be the guy running like a bat out of hell. “Big. He was dressed in dark clothes and wearing a dark ski mask."

The second cop nodded and said to Donnelly, “You want to open these gates and we'll go check it out?"

"There's a gate in the back leading to the old fire access road. He'll have gone out that way."

"I'll take the front, Ramirez, you take the back,” the cop said to his partner.

Ramirez nodded and went back to the patrol car as Donnelly moved to open the automatic gates.

Peter stood shivering while the tall gates slid slowly open. “He tried to get in the back door of the bungalow."

Donnelly said, “He must have thought nobody was home. Probably thought you were still in the hospital."

"Probably.” Yes. That made sense, didn't it? Peter wished he felt convinced.

The gates open, the uniformed officer came through and followed them to the little security cart that Donnelly used. Peter grabbed a seat in the back and they shot away up the road, the cart engine humming as though they were off on a pleasure jaunt.

They pulled up outside the bungalow so Peter could get out. Donnelly eased his girth out of the little cart and led the second cop, Officer Simon, across the grass and down the hillside to the grotto.

Peter let himself back in the cottage and put the coffeemaker on. If he was going to be awake for the rest of the night, he might as well be wide awake.

Donnelly and Simon returned within ten minutes, and Peter led them around the back to see where the intruder had broken the glass.

"The glass is on the outside of the door.” The cop was giving Peter a strange look.

"It fell out when I touched the doorknob."

"Why would you do that, sir?"

It took Peter a few seconds to understand what Officer Simon was getting at. He felt himself change color in a wave of irrational guilt. “I wanted to make sure the door was still locked. It was ... reaction. If I'd stopped to think, I wouldn't have touched it, obviously."

The cop looked noncommittal. He proceeded to take all Peter's information. By the time they had finished, his partner had rejoined them.

"No sign of anyone,” Ramirez said.

"I didn't fake a break-in,” Peter said. “Someone tried to get in here tonight."

"No one is suggesting you faked a break-in, sir,” Simon said woodenly.

"What'd I say?” Ramirez looked around for enlightenment.

"Nah, no problem,” Donnelly said. In an apparent spirit of helpfulness, he added to the police, “No way is the boss trying to pull a stunt like this. He just got out of the hospital. It's natural he'd be jumpy."

This, reasonably, led to explanation about how Peter had landed in the hospital to begin with, and by the time the cops finally drove away, Peter was sure they were convinced he was either a nut seeking attention or a criminal who had just outsmarted himself. Either way ... not good.

Donnelly also departed, promising to patrol the grounds every hour, and Peter finally turned out the lights and returned to bed, where he spent the remainder of the night tossing and turning—and sitting up every time a floorboard creaked.

It was a relief to open his eyes to sunlight.

The morning was growing warm by the time Peter woke, still tired and a little groggy, and for a few moments he rested in the clean cotton sheets, listening to the sweet birdsong, the lulling rustle of leaves outside the open window, the hiss of sprinklers. Drowsily, his fingers fumbled with buttons of his pajama pants, reaching inside, touching the velvet warmth of his genitals. He comforted himself with the familiar motions, using the pearl of moisture at the head of his cock to slick his strokes.

Cole, he thought. Cole...

But, unsettlingly, it was Detective Griffin's face that kept interposing itself between Peter and the fantasy Cole. He closed his eyes against the image of Griffin's lean, hard face, the stormy blue eyes so different from Cole's bright blue gaze. Griffin was the last person he wanted to think of.

Especially in this context.

So how weird was it that he couldn't help wondering what it would be like with him? Did he have some hitherto-undiscovered kink for S and M? Because it was impossible to picture Griffin being anything but the most brief and brutal of lovers.

The weird thing was his increasing certainty that Griffin was gay. From where had that conviction arisen? Griffin had said nothing to indicate his sexual inclinations, had he? Did Peter have any reason to think Griffin was anything but heterosexual—and God help the woman involved with that bastard.

But ...
had
he and Cole ever really done this? Done
anything?
The dreams were so vivid, so real, but...

A glance at the clock warned him he was going to be late. Punctuality being something apparently hardwired into him.

He moved his hand faster, just the right grip, the right angle ... the quiet relief of his hand pumping in steady rhythm that was almost reverie ... pumping ... and then the fiercely sweet outcry—hot, wet ejaculation splattering belly and thighs, soaking into the thin cotton of his pajamas.

He closed his eyes, feeling that release echoing through his overstrung nerves and body, and then rolled out of bed heading for the shower.

It was when he opened the medicine cabinet looking for shaving cream that he spotted the small brown bottle of Zoloft. His name was on the prescription.

What the hell?
Antidepressants?
Maybe they made sense now that his life was falling apart, but
before
he got whacked on the head?

For a second or two, he stared down at the bottle, trying to reconcile the drugs with what he knew about himself—what he felt he knew, anyway. In the end he was forced to conclude it was simply another mystery.

He dressed in a white tailored shirt—he seemed to have an endless supply of them—and brown trousers, breakfasted on Danish and coffee, and walked up to the museum.

The parking lot was empty, the building still locked. He let himself inside and stood there gazing in dismay at the blinking red light of the alarm system. And then, quite easily, the code came to him and he punched it in.

The green light flicked on.

The relief was almost as overwhelming as the previous panic. He was remembering. It was all coming back. First in bits and pieces, and now in greater chunks of recollection.

He unlocked his office and went inside.

Had anyone been here since the day before? It all looked exactly as he'd left it. Was this feeling of paranoia due to the remaining gaps in his recollection or was there a reason for it?

He opened his laptop. The sign-in screen came up. He stared at it, frowning.

Then ... he closed his eyes and just typed.

And just like that he was in—and blinking at a desktop background of himself and Cole. There were other people in the photo as well, but the center of attention was obvious—and embarrassing.

And all at once it was as though someone had splashed a bucket of cold water in his face. What was
with
him mooning over his married college roommate?

Was he really this lonely? This obsessed? Because from the strange perspective of an outsider looking in at Peter Killian's life, this just seemed ... pathetic.

The first thing he did was change the desktop background to a generic picture of woods. As the autumn woodland scene flashed up, replacing the photograph of his fatuous smiling face gazing at Cole's profile, he felt an almost physical relief. Like a weight had been lifted off his chest.

Peter spent the next few hours reacquainting himself with his work life. It was some solace at least to see that however screwed up his personal life was, he was efficient and thorough when it came to his professional life.

As he went through e-mails, more and more came back to him. And not just his work life. He remembered all kinds of things. The door had swung back open—and this time it stayed open.

When he hit the gaps, it was almost disconcerting. But perhaps some of these were normal gaps. No one could remember the details of every meeting, every phone conversation, surely?

He clicked through the mail in his in-box. He had been working with a couple of local schools to arrange tours, and Sally Orchard was demanding a number of answers on questions relating to the annual charity ball to be held the following month.

He checked the files on his desktop. It looked like he had still been working on cataloging the museum's collections. That supported what Griffin had said—that Peter had discovered the thefts when he began to move from the manual catalog system to the electronic.

What had he noticed? What had tipped him off? Somewhere he must have made notes.

Certainly there was nothing threatening in any of this. Nothing that he should have wanted or needed to forget. In fact, there was remarkably little personal information in his office or his computer. Nor was it like museum curator was a high-risk job. Mostly it was planning, displaying, and cataloging the museum's myriad collections, which certainly seemed to be how he mostly spent his days. He also planned and oversaw tours and organized programs and the occasional workshop. That was about it. No Indiana Jones stuff for him.

His phone buzzed. He picked it up, and the perfect android voice said, “Mr. Constantine on line one."

"Thank you, Mary."

She clicked off. He took a breath and said, “Peter here."

"Pete.” The warmth in that voice made him close his eyes. “I tried the bungalow, but you weren't answering. I thought I ordered you to take it easy."

Ordered?

"I feel better working."

"Peter."

Indulgent. Affectionate. Knowing. Yes. That was why he kept hanging on. But hanging on to
what?
A dream. Because sure as hell no memory of anything more tangible than a few brotherly hugs was coming back to him.

A little more briskly, Cole said, “How
are
you feeling today?"

Peter replied crisply, “Fine, thanks. Much better, in fact."

"After last night's adventure? Are you trying to pretend you're Superman?"

"No, of course not. I feel fine. How did you find about last night's attempted break-in?"

"Donnelly called me. I don't want to chew your ass, Pete, but you really should have called me yourself."

He should have. And the fact that he hadn't was more proof than anything that he was still a ways from back to normal.

"I was going to call first thing. It was two o'clock in the morning. I didn't see the point of disturbing you and ... Angie.”
Angie
. That was it. Yes, it was all coming back. The good and the bad.

"I understand, but—"

He blurted out, “My memory is starting to come back."

There was a pause and then Cole said heartily, “Excellent!"

"Yes."

There was another pause and then Cole said, “Well, since you
are
feeling better and since you say your memory is returning ... the board of trustees would like to meet with you this afternoon. Are you up for that?"

Peter's heart sank. “Of course."

"It shouldn't be ... Well, obviously there are questions. Things to discuss. But I don't anticipate any problems for you personally."

"All right."

The fact that Cole was bothering to say this indicated to Peter that he did indeed anticipate problems for Peter.

"We'll see you at four in the conference room then."

"Yes."

Cole clicked off. Peter hung up and jumped as the phone buzzed again.

"Yes?"

Mary said tersely, “The police are here."

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Peter left his office and walked to the end of the short hall in time to see Detective Griffin crossing the main exhibit room. A group of special-ed students was touring the museum, and one of the boys was making loud bird sounds.

Griffin watched them without expression.

Peter said, “You're here bright and early."

The hard blue gaze turned his way like an artillery battery zeroing on a target. “I heard about your break-in."

"And you think I faked it in order to throw suspicion off myself."

Griffin laughed. Not only was his laugh unexpectedly appealing, something about it struck Peter as ... familiar. “I admit it doesn't really seem like your style."

"What do you think my style is?” He threw that over his shoulder as he started to turn away, but his attention was caught by Griffin's expression.