MIND READER (12 page)

“Give me a minute, okay?” Parker Simms had the compassion of a swamp stump. “I’m cold and wet and my leg
hurts like hell.”

He slid forward and draped his arms over the seat. “You’re scared.”

She glared at him. “He scared me. Of course he scared me. I’m not stupid, Parker. If he’d caught me in there, I
know what Decker would have done.”

Parker swept her hair back from her face. “But he didn’t
catch you. You’re fine. Now get over it.”

Sliding to the door, Parker got out of the back seat, then
got back into the front beside her. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” She wadded up the handkerchief and pressed it
firmly against her mouth to inhale its heavenly scent. Why
the smell of Parker’s cologne calmed her when the man himself infuriated her, she hadn’t a clue—but it did. “Go
where?”

“Anywhere,” he said impatiently. “The porch light just went on.” He hooked a thumb toward Mr. Mud Boots’s
house.

The frilly curtains fluttered. “Mrs. Mud Boots is watching again.” Caron fleetingly hoped for another kiss. She
even tensed in anticipation.

When it didn’t come, she frowned her disappointment.
“I’ll take you to your car. I saw a fresh twelve-pack of beer
on the counter. Decker’s good for the night.”

“Okay.”

She stopped near the black Porsche and waited.

Parker looked over at her. “I’ll meet you here at six in the
morning.”

“Six? That’s awfully early.” She had been hoping for a little time to work on her own. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. People sleep in,” she said, trying to dissuade him. “It’s af
ter midnight now.”

“What did you find?”

She might have trouble reading him, but Parker cer
tainly had her number. His look said he half expected her
to lie. But she wouldn’t. Even if he was lying about why he
was getting involved, he meant her no harm. His having
aided her in getting out of Decker’s house proved that. She
could trust him...a little. “The girl’s bike, and a phone number. I don’t know if the number is important, but the
girl’s name was engraved on the bike.”

“What is it?”

“Misty,” Caron said around a lump in her throat. The
fear and betrayal she’d sensed so strongly on touching the
bike flooded her again now. “Her name is Misty.”

Parker’s eyes softened. He pulled his wallet out of his jacket and passed Caron a business card. “Call me when you’re ready to get started in the morning.”

“I thought we were to meet here at six.”

“I’ve reconsidered.” His gaze flickered over her face,
then lingered on her mouth. “You need some rest. You look
like hell.”

“You’re such a charmer, Parker Simms.” If her looks
mirrored her feelings, she did look like hell. Her mind had
been reeling for days, and there was no relief in sight.

“Charm comes with the tall-dark-and-handsome pack
age. But to tell you the truth, it causes more problems than
it’s worth.”

That remark redeemed him a bit. He accepted his assets
and knew that alone they fell short of making a patch on a good man. It was what was inside that really counted.

“Parker.” She stared at the speedometer. “Misty doesn’t
have a lot of time.” Caron glanced up to see how Parker
took her remark.

His lips pinched together, and he dropped his lids to half-
mast, hiding his thoughts. “She’s sick,” he said, his voice
surprisingly soft. “You’ve told me.”

Caron couldn’t talk; Parker still didn’t believe her. Oh, why did it matter? But it didn’t just matter, it hurt. Weary from their battles, she sighed. “See you tomorrow.”

He started to reach for her hand, then drew back. He
wanted to say something, she could see that he did by the
way he twisted his mouth, but he decided against it, nodded briskly and backed away from the car.

So he was shutting her out again. Before she could talk herself out of it, she got out of the car and slammed the door. Breasts to chest, she glared up at him. “I’ve had it, Parker. Damn it, why won’t you believe me?”

“Because I can’t. Because—” He clamped his jaw shut.

“Go on, spit it out. Let’s get whatever’s bothering you out in the open. Then, just maybe we can clear the air.”

“We can’t.” Regret laced his voice. “I don’t want to talk
about it, Caron.”

“Well, I
do
want to talk about it.” She clenched her
hands into fists and squeezed. “You pour on the charm and
wheedle secrets out of everyone, but, by heaven, you won’t
share your own. That’s not fair, Parker.” Angry tears stung her eyes. Furious tears, because Parker wasn’t any differ
ent from the others. “What are you so afraid of?”

“Leave it alone,” he said sharply. “You don’t know what
you’re asking from me.”

“Then tell me. I’m not stupid. I know you hate
me. What I don’t know is why.”

He spun away and strode to his car.

“No.” She ran after him and grabbed his sleeve. “No,
not this time, Parker Simms. You’re not walking away from
me without telling me what this is all about.”

He stood stock-still. The muscles in his arm were as rigid
as steel.

She leaned her forehead against his arm. “Please, Parker. Talk to me.”

He blinked, then looked down at her. “You’re crying.”

He sounded surprised that she could cry. “I’m not crying.” A sniffle joined the tears, proving her a liar.

Gently, he brushed at her wet cheek with the pad of his thumb.
“Okay, you’re not.”

She raised her face to his hand. “Talk to me.”

A frown formed between his brows. “It’s best if I don’t.” A sadness that touched her came into his voice. “It’s best
to keep this inside me.”

Her voice was an explosion of sound in the silent night.
“What have I done to you? Can you at least tell me that?”

His
hands trembling, he gripped her arms and glared
down at her. Anguish warred with rage and flooded his face. “You’ve made me give a damn about you. That’s what you’ve done, Caron. That’s what you’ve done.”

She expelled a puff of breath, and the fury drained right out of her. Parker was hurting; she could feel it so clearly, so deeply. She softened her voice. “Is giving a damn about
me that bad?”

“Yes.” The word seemed to have been ripped from his
throat. He let go of her so fast that she nearly stumbled.

When she looked up at him, his face was a bleak mask of
desperation. “Go home, Caron. Please...just go home.”

Frightened by the intensity of his emotions, frightened of not getting help she might need to save Misty, Caron rushed
back to her car. Without risking another look at him, she
punched down on the accelerator and tore down the street.

By the time Caron crossed the Greater New Orleans
Bridge, she’d stopped trembling. But by the time she
reached her apartment, she was shaking all over again. Not in fear now, but in anger. She was furious with Parker, but
even more so with herself. What good was a partner who
didn’t believe her? One who wouldn’t talk to her? She
didn’t have time to nurse him along, to probe the depths of
his soul to find out what she’d done that had made him so bitter. Her energy had to be focused on Misty.

Inside the apartment building, a bleak yellow light spilled
down the dingy stairwell. Caron grabbed the scarred ban
ister and grimaced at all the graffiti on the steps. There were
nearly more markings than wood. In a blue funk, she
climbed up to her second-floor apartment. Just once, why couldn’t a man she cared about have a little faith in her?

It still didn’t sit well that Sandy had no report. In every case she’d imaged, he’d always had one. Self-doubt crept in. Maybe Parker was right. Maybe this wasn’t real.

Caron fought back. She was
not
losing her mind. Misty
had
been abducted. She
was
sick.

“Nothing like fighting for a child’s life with one hand tied behind your back,” Caron muttered, dumping her shoes just outside the door to her apartment. Muddy from Ina’s iris bed, they hit the bare boards with a dull thunk and splat
tered gooey mud. The shoes were ruined. She didn’t care to
think about what the mud had done to the carpeting in her
car.

A creepy feeling seeped through her. She looked both ways down the empty hall. At the far end, near the stairs, a single bulb flickered. It always had, and that flickering
always had made her jumpy.

Telling herself to get a grip, she leaned back against the
doorframe and dug through her purse for her keys. If it
took more than another five seconds to find them, get dry
and get to bed, she’d have to paste her eyelids open and tie
knots in her knees to stay upright.

As she fished for her keys, her arm banged against the
door. It inched open on creaky hinges.

She gave it a blank stare. She’d locked that door; she
knew she had. Her heart in her throat, she looked inside from the dim hallway. Dark. Cool. Nothing stirring.

Tense as strung wire, she flipped on the light and took a tentative step inside. Certainty suffused her, and she resisted the urge to shrink back. Someone had been there.

From what she could see, nothing was missing. The
stereo, television—even the VCR—were all in place. Noth
ing had been stolen, but someone
had
been in her apart
ment.

Her heart hammering in her temples, she walked through
the living room, darting her gaze everywhere, then went
into the kitchen.

Nothing amiss. Coffeepot still plugged in, its red light glowing. Her cup, still half-full of coffee, sat where she’d
left it on the chipped porcelain table. The box of food she’d
brought back with her from Midtown was still on the
counter, beside the phone. Her palms slick with sweat, she silently eased a butcher knife from the wooden block near
the stove, and turned.

The refrigerator’s condenser kicked on. Caron jumped. Recognizing the whirring noise, she took a calming breath
and warned herself to settle down.

When she’d regained a little composure, she checked the
pantry and the hall closet, then moved on to the bath
room. At every corner, every door, she expected someone
to spring out at her. But no one did. She found nothing unusual, yet the sense of invasion, of violation, grew stronger and stronger.

A bit more confident, she walked into the bedroom. Her
floral bedspread was wrinkled, but she’d probably done
that earlier, sitting on the edge to put on her shoes. Her bra
and jeans lay where she’d flung them on the stuffed chair near the window. She dropped to her knees and checked
under the bed, then the closet. Systematically she moved on
until she’d searched every crevice in the apartment.

She found nothing. But her door had been unlocked, and
someone had been here. The question was who? And why?

She put the knife down on the kitchen table and went back through the living room to close and lock the door.

The little hairs on her neck lifted. Her muddy shoes weren’t where she’d left them. One was close by, and the other one had been kicked halfway down the hall.

And then she knew, as certainly as if she’d seen it hap
pen. The someone who had been in her apartment had still
been there when she’d arrived home. And, just as she had done with Decker, the intruder had slipped past her and
fled.

She slammed the door shut and slid the lock, ramming the bolt home. Slumping against the door, she dragged in
air, forcing it down to her lungs. Something wet her cheek.
It smelled...hauntingly familiar.

Queasy with dread, she dragged her fingertips across her
cheek, then looked at the bright red streaks on the pads of
her fingers. Blood.

Whimpering, she backed away...and stared in horror at the words smeared on her door, you next.