Fallen Angels 01 - Covet (29 page)

Unless a national security emergency had occurred. Or something had been found in Marie-Terese's records.

There were reasons why people felt the need to look behind themselves in dark alleys. Good reasons why most tended to hurry along, even if it wasn't chilly. Excellent reasons why lighted streets were much preferred at night.

“Oh...God, no.... please—”

The downward sweep of the tire iron cut off the pleading and it was a sharp extinguishing, like turning off a light: One moment there was illumination, the next nothing but blackness. One moment there was a voice, the next nothing but silence. Blood was on both their faces now.

As he set about killing the man, rage lifted his arm more than any conscious thought did and his anger gave him the kind of strength that meant this wasn't going to take long. Just one more strike, if even that, and there would be more than a temporary silence.

Shifting his weight to get the most out of the downward trajectory, he—

At the far end of the alley, the headlights of a car swept around, the twin paths of beams hitting the brick of the building to the left and pouring down its rough wall.

No time for another strike. In a split second, he was going to be lit as clear as if he were on stage.

Wheeling around, he shot over to the opposite side of the alley, running as fast as he could. As he gunned around the corner, they were going to catch sight of his jacket and the back of his baseball cap, but there were a hundred black Gore-Tex windbreakers in Caldwell, and a black hat was a black hat was a black hat.

There was a screech of brakes and then someone yelled something.

He kept going with the hightailing for only three blocks, and when there was no more shouting and no roaring sounds of a car chasing him, he slowed his pace, then ducked into an inset doorway that had no overhead light. Shucking the windbreaker, he buried the tire iron in it, making knot after knot with the sleeves to tie the thing up while he caught his breath.

His car was not far away because he'd left it somewhere other than the Iron Mask's parking lot just to be safe. And hadn't that turned out to be the right decision.

Even after he was breathing slowly and steadily, he stayed where he was, hidden and safe. The police sirens came about five minutes later and he watched two marked cars speed by. About a minute and a half later a third one, which was unmarked and had its flashing light stuck to the dashboard, went tearing past him.

When there were no others, he took off his baseball cap, wadded it up, and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans. Then he took off his belt, pulled up his fleece, and secured the bloody tire iron and its wrapping against his rib cage. After covering himself up again, he ghosted out of the doorway and headed for his car, which was less than a quarter of a mile away.

Going along, he walked neither fast nor slow, and he looked around with his eyes but not his head. To the casual observer, he was just another pedestrian out after midnight, a young guy about to meet up with friends or maybe on his way to his girl's house: Nothing unusual, utterly unnotable as he encountered a pair of guys and a homeless woman and a pack of couples.

His car was just where he'd left it and he had to get in carefully, thanks to what was stashed under his fleece. Starting the engine, he headed out onto Trade, and when an ambulance went steaming by him, he did the right thing, ducking to the side and getting out of the way.

No need to hurry, boys, he thought. Given how hard he'd hit that guy, there was no way they'd bring him around.

Cutting down toward the river, he stayed with the flow of traffic, to the extent that there was any, but there weren't a lot of people out on the roads this late. And there were fewer and fewer as he went farther and father away from downtown.

A good fifteen miles later, he pulled over to the side of the road.

No streetlights here. No cars. Just a stretch of asphalt with trees and brush that came right up to the gravel shoulder.

Getting out, he locked his car and crunched through the woods, heading for the river. When he emerged at the Hudson's shoreline, he looked across the way. There were some houses on the other side, but they had outdoor lights on only, which meant the inhabitants were asleep—although it wouldn't matter if they were awake, lying in bed, or even walking through their kitchens, trolling for a snack. No one was going to see him. The river was wide here, wide and deep.

Lifting up his black fleece, he freed the tire iron, and with a bracing throw, pitched it along with its windbreaker bathing suit into the water. With a plunk and just a little splash, the thing sank in the blink of an eye, never to be found again: The riverbed was at least ten feet down in this part, but even better, he'd chosen a spot where there was a curve to the Hudson's course—the current would not only carry the tire iron farther away from Caldwell; it would drag the thing farther out into the middle, away from the shore.

Back at his car, he got in and kept on going.

He drove around for a while, listening to the local radio, dying to know what the police were going to report about what had happened in that alley. But there was nothing. Just hip-hop and pop rock on FM

and conspiracy theorists and right-wing talking heads on AM.

As he went along, taking random lefts and rights, he thought about the way things had gone tonight. He could feel himself slipping into old ways and habits, and that was not good—although on some level, it seemed inevitable.

Hard to change who you were inside. Very hard.

The thing was, shooting those college boys the night before had been a bit of shock, but the whole tire-iron incident just now seemed like business as usual. And the trigger for the kill had been much lower.

The guy hadn't even been aggressive toward her in that club. He'd had her and that was enough. One look at that self-satisfied smile when he'd come out of that bathroom they'd disappeared into and the sonofabitch was a dead man.

But things couldn't keep going like this. He was smart enough to know that if he continued to off men downtown, his chances of getting caught increased with each body he left behind. So he either needed to stop...or clean up his messes.

When he was satisfied he hadn't been followed, and when he could no longer fight the urge to check the TV, he headed for home—or for what had been home for the past two months.

The house was a rental on the outskirts of town, in a neighborhood full of either young families with young kids or old couples with no kids. And given the number of folks who were having a hard time in the real estate bust, it had been easy for him to find something.

Rent was a thousand a month. No problem.

Pulling into the driveway, he hit the garage door opener and waited as the panels moved upward. Odd. The house next door had lights on in it. One in the front hall, another in the living room, and a third upstairs. The place had always been dark before.

Not his business, though—he had plenty of his own going on.

Parking in his garage, he hit the button on the remote and waited until he was shut in so no one would see him get out. Which was a habit he'd picked up thanks to watching his woman. Inside the house, he went to the back hall bathroom and turned on the light. In the mirror, he realized that the mustache he'd put on his upper lip had gone off-kilter—not good, but at least no one had looked at him funny as he'd walked to his car. Maybe it had happened while he'd been at the river.

He ripped off the stripe of fuzz, flushed it down the toilet, and thought about washing the blood off here, but figured the shower upstairs would be better. As for his clothes? His fleece had been protected by the jacket, which was now in the Hudson, but his jeans were stained.

Damn it, the pants were an issue. There was a fireplace in the living room, but he'd never used it before, had no wood, and besides, if he lit something up, there was a chance the neighbors would smell the smoke and remember it.

Better to lose them in the river after dark, just like he'd done with the tire iron.

The hat. He'd had the hat on, too.

He took the black cap out of his back pocket. There were just a few spots on it, but that was enough to put it in the land of disposal. You couldn't get fibers clean enough in these days of the CSIers. Fire or permanent disappearance were the only options you had.

Upstairs, he paused at the top of the stairwell. With both hands, he took off the wig and smoothed his hair so that it lay flat. He supposed it would be better to take a shower before he showed himself, but he couldn't wait that long. Besides, he'd have to walk through the bedroom to get to the bathroom, so she'd see him anyway.

He went to the doorway. “I'm home.”

Across the way, she looked at him from the corner, as beautiful and demure and resplendent as ever, her eyes pools of compassion and warmth, her alabaster skin glowing in the dim light cast by the street lamp outside.

He waited for a response and then reminded himself one wasn't coming: The Mary Magdalene statue he'd stolen at dawn remained as quiet as it had been when he'd taken it from the church.

He'd had to take her. Now that he knew what his woman did for a living, it was his representation of his love, the thing to tide him over until he finally and permanently got her where she belonged— which was with
him.

The statue also reminded him that he shouldn't kill her just because she was a dirty, filthy slut. She was...a woman misled, strayed, off the right path. Something he himself was guilty of. But he'd done his time and he was back on track now....

Well, with minor exceptions.

As he knelt in front of the statue, he reached up to cup the face in his palm. He loved being able to touch his woman and it was a little disappointing not to have her stroke him back or worship him as she should.

But that was why he needed the real thing.

Marie-Terese had been convinced Vin was going to kiss her on the mouth.

And there was a part of her that wanted just that, but she'd been panicky, too: She might have technically been having sex at the club, but it had been three years since she'd actually been kissed. And the last time it had happened it had been forced on her as part of an act of violence.

Instead of giving her what she both wanted and feared, though, Vin had just pressed his lips to her forehead and eased her up against his chest—and here she was, in the strong arms of a man whose heart was beating close to her ear, whose warmth was leaching into her own body, whose big hand was making slow circles around her back.

Marie-Terese smoothed her palm up his pecs. Underneath the cashmere, his body was hard, suggesting that he exercised a lot.

She wondered what he looked like without his clothes on.

She wondered what his mouth would feel like on hers.

She wondered how having him skin-to-skin would be.

“I guess we should probably go,” he said, his voice rumbling through his chest. “Do we have to?”

His breath caught and then resumed. “I think we'd better.”

“Why?”

Vin shrugged, the movement rubbing his sweater against her cheek.

“Just think it's for the best.” Oh, man...how about that for a polite brush-off. Good God, what if she'd read it all wrong? Abruptly, she shifted upward, pushing herself off of him. “Yes, I think you're right—”

In her haste, her palm slipped on the fine nap of his sweater and brushed over something that was hard below his waist. And not hard as in bone.

“Damn, I'm sorry,” he said, moving his hips away. “Yeah, it's definitely time to pull out of here...”

She looked down. His erection was unmistakable, and what do you know, she had a roaring sexual response to it. She wanted him.

Needed to have him inside of her. And all the rational reasons not to go there were suddenly nothing more than yada, yada, yada....

Locking eyes with him, she whispered, “Kiss me.” Vin froze in the process of getting up. As his chest expanded, he stared at the floor and didn't say a thing.

“Oh,” she said. “I understand.”

His body might have wanted her, but his mind was jamming at the thought of being with a whore.

In a horrible rush, she saw the faces of the Johns she had been with...or at least those she could recall. So many of them, more than she could count, and they crowded the space between her and this man who sat on his boyhood bed, looking as sexy as anything.

She hadn't wanted the others. Had taken pains to be as separate from them as she could, layers of latex and dissociation barriers she used to try to stay as untouched by the contact as she could.

Vin, however...Vin she wanted close, and he couldn't go there.

This was the real damage she had done to herself, wasn't it: she'd assumed that as long as she stayed disease-free and unharmed physically, the long-term effects were going to be limited to a store of memories she'd be desperate to forget. But this was cancer, not the flu. Because she could barely see Vin through the cast of hundreds, and he was as blinded by the anonymous, invisible crowd as she was.

Swallowing hard, she thought...in this moment, she would have given up everything to have had a clean slate between her and Vin.

Everything...except for her son.

Marie-Terese shifted off the bed, but he caught her hand before she could shoot out of the room.

“I can't stop at just kissing you.” His hot eyes locked on her. “That's the only reason I'm holding off. I'd like to tell you I'm a gentleman and could pull back or out with only a word from you, but I can't trust myself. Not tonight.”

Caught up in the distance between them, all she could hear was,
Women like you don 'tget to say no.

In a hoarse voice, she said, “You already know I'm a slut. So I won't stop you.” Vin's expression went cold and he dropped his hold on her.

After a moment, he rose to his feet and glared at her. “You don't ever refer to yourself like that in front of me again. We clear? Never again.

I don't give a fuck who you were with or how many there were—