Shadowed Paradise (41 page)

The parking area was nearly empty when he saw
her. He should have known Jody wouldn’t try to outjockey the jocks.
Sensible, that was the word for Jody Stevens. She wouldn’t be an
easy target.

He welcomed the challenge.

Jody might have kept a wary eye on a bunch of
rednecks waving beer bottles out of the cab of a pickup truck, but
a BMW raised not a flicker of interest. Fifteen minutes later, as
she turned onto the shell surface of Sea Grape Road, she was
oblivious to the evil trailing behind.

“
Good afternoon, Mrs. Bentley. Hi,
Jamie,” Jody said as she topped the last step to the front deck
where Jamie and his great-grandmother were waiting. “You all set to
go, Jamie?”

He scowled up at her, obviously
skeptical. “Are you
sure
they
have ice?” Jamie demanded.

“
Absolutely. Did you go skating up
north?”

“
We had a pond right at our
house.”

“
Then you can hold me up,” Jody said.
She leaned down and confided, “I’ve never been on ice skates in my
life. It’s something kind of new for around here. Think you can
show me the ropes?”

“
Sure. Let’s go.”

“
Thank you, my dear,” Ginny Bentley
said to Jody. “It’s wonderful of you to help out this
week.”

“
Truth is, I’m looking forward to it,
although I may be limping when you see me tomorrow.” Jody winked at
the bright-eyed elderly lady. “Besides, I’m excused from my chores
at home this week. See ya.” With a casual wave of her hand, Jody
ran down the stairs after Jamie.

A cloud seemed to drift across the sun.
Virginia Bentley shivered and went inside, locking the door behind
her.

Shit! Shit! Shit!
Ice skating. In Golden Beach? The fever was burning hot in
him. He wanted. He needed.

He’d wait.

He eased the Beamer behind some rental
trucks. An hour later he froze to his seat as a white and green
county patrol car cruised through the skating rink’s parking lot,
past the rental trucks next door, and on to the industrial park
beyond. Just a routine patrol . . . but he didn’t like the funny
look he got as the deputy went by. Fuck! Stupid to be around when
the cop came back. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. He’d
have to try again tomorrow.

By four o’clock on Monday afternoon Sheriff
Jeffries could be seen every hour on CNN’s Headline News assuring
the citizens of Calusa County that the Special Task Force was
working round the clock on a solution to the Realtor murders and,
no, there was absolutely no evidence of any connection between the
serial killings, the television reporter’s death, and the stalker
at the model home. Brad Blue was prominently featured on the local
News at Six. The reporter, accustomed to playing a distant second
fiddle to Diane Lake, stumbled over his opening remarks, but the
close-up of Brad accurately depicted his rock-like stance before
the video camera’s winking red eye that morning when he had
anticipated what Bill Jeffries would record for Headline News four
hours later:

As a member of the Special Task Force, I can
assure you that we are confident the stalker at Amber Run was an
isolated incident. Some kind of a sick joke. We see no connection
between Sunday afternoon’s stalker here at Amber Run and the
murders the Special Task Force has been assigned to investigate.
Nor do we believe there is any connection with the tragic death of
Diane Lake. I’m sure the sheriff’s department would advise
reasonable caution, but we see no reason for panic.

“
You’ve got to be kidding!” Claire
burst out. As the reporter stared into the camera, declaiming his
windup with grim concentration, the new Mrs. Brad Blue regarded her
husband with a look that should have curled his hair.

“
So maybe no one over the age of eight
believed a word of it,” Brad conceded, “but I don’t see any reason
to cry madman and send the whole town stampeding to the gun shops.
If that happens, we’ll lose more people to hasty trigger fingers
than to our local monster. And,” he added, emphasizing each word,
“just because I think we’re dealing with one supermadman doesn’t
make it so. Nor am I stupid enough to go on local TV and contradict
what I know the sheriff is going to say on national news. If lying
will keep our killer from going to ground and maybe help the
innocent get a good night’s sleep, then I’ll damn well stand up
there and lie like a rug.”

“
It also might make people
careless!”

Brad’s exaggerated enunciation made it
obvious his patience was wearing thin. “I’ve told you, Claire, he’s
not interested in old ladies, children . . . or men, for that
matter. And the younger women in town have already had warnings
enough.”

“
You’re so logical, it hurts,” Claire
grumbled.

“
By the way,” Brad added, making a
conscious effort to ease the tension, “Slade came to work for us
today. Said he wanted to help and Wade gave him time off from the
ranch, so I took him on as our own private security patrol. He’ll
come out every day after school and work weekends too until this is
over.” Brad hesitated, then added, “Basically, he’s a good kid.
Strong and competent, but finding an arm in the river was a nasty
experience. I think he needs to do this for himself as well as for
us.”

Ruthlessly, Claire shoved aside the gruesome
vision of Jeannette Tyler’s death. If she let terror overwhelm her,
the killer won. She summoned a meager smile. “I’m glad you took him
on. He seems to be a lot more responsible than he looks.”

“
That’s a Whitlaw for you,” Brad
mocked. “Responsible, upright, law-abiding, God-fearing . .
.”

“
Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Claire
promptly turned her back, displaying an intense interest in news of
the latest international crisis.

Later that night, after Brad turned out the
bedroom light, he lay with his elbow under his head and ran through
his options. He could simply take his wife in his arms and make
love to her. It was, after all, only the third night of his
honeymoon and last night had been a total wipeout. Claire might be
justifiably annoyed with him over more issues than he cared to
name, but he was confident it wouldn’t take much to overcome her
pique. Then again, that was just sex. No matter how tender, or how
passionate, it wouldn’t resolve problems more serious than lying to
a video camera.

But if words were needed instead of action,
what was his opening gambit?

Uh, Claire . . . are you
recovered yet?
How the hell could she be recovered
from the terror of a unknown stalker even if it had been thirty
days instead of thirty hours?

Are you feeling
better?
An improvement, but damned trite. She was his
wife, for God’s sake, not an unknown victim at a crime
scene.

Do you think you’re ready? .
.
. Insensitive. Why should she be ready to come to
him? She’d had Diane rubbed in her face, up close and personal.
She’d seen her husband dragged off for questioning. She’d been
stalked, questioned from every angle. And her stalker was very
likely a madman who had her targeted for his next
victim.

Not to mention her husband actually
expected, wanted,
panted for
her to make love to him. With him.

Brad stifled a groan, shifting his arm to
cover his eyes. Wasn’t he a one? A real prize? He ought to get out
of bed, get down on his knees and beg forgiveness for his carnal
thoughts. Which weren’t doing a damn thing for his libido anyway.
He was limp as a rag.

Okay, so he was suffering from a lethal mix
of guilt and self-pity. It was all his fault. He should have been
smarter. He should have caught the bastard. He’d promised to
protect Claire. Hell, that’s why she married him.

He’d failed. Then again, a man couldn’t work
miracles. He could only do his damnedst and hope for the best. She
was his wife. This was their honeymoon. They weren’t supposed to be
lying in bed like two bumps on a log.

Brad sank further into the bed, settling
himself for the long lonely agony of the night. He’d slept under
damn near every condition imaginable, but not tonight. Not in his
own bed. With his own wife. His bride. He’d fucked up. Big
time.

Soft fingers touched his naked hip. Resting
quietly, unmoving. Brad stopped breathing.

Two of the fingers moved, walking lightly
across his abdomen, where they paused to trace the rim of his belly
button. Brad’s breath left him in a soft whoosh of air. He clenched
his teeth against a groan. He was imagining things. Must be.

In a soft pitter-patter of fingertips and the
gut-wrenching flick of fingernails, the unseen dainty, all-powerful
hand moved lower yet. Brad, who had rediscovered God in a
helicopter somewhere over Calusa County just the day before, sent
up a fervent prayer of thanks. For whatever reason, his wife wanted
him, forgave him. Possibly even loved him.

He reached for the hand that had achieved
instant success in coaxing its target into life. “Not yet, not
yet,” he murmured, moving her tantalizing fingers away from his
pulsing readiness. “I thought I couldn’t love you any more, Mrs.
Blue, but you—you witch from New England—have just surpassed all
expectations.” Brad bent his head to blow warm breath into her
belly button, followed up with a trail of butterfly kisses moving
over the fullness of her breast. A gasp shuddered through her as
his teeth tugged her nipple, moved on.

“
You’re a giver, Claire Blue, with more
compassion than common sense,” he breathed, poised with his lips
barely above her own. “You can’t even be certain I’m not a
murderer—God knows I’ve done more than my share of killing—and yet
here you are.”

Brad paused for a kiss—light, teasing. A
promise. “So I’m going to make sure the giver gets as good as she
gives.”

“
You always do,” Claire whispered
against his mouth.

This time Brad’s groan was closer to a feral
growl. This was how it was meant to be. Nothing, and no one, was
going to take Claire from him.

In the dark of the moon they created their
own light.

When Jody picked up Jamie on Tuesday
afternoon, their trip was much shorter than the drive to the
skating rink. Only a half mile from Ginny’s home was the small
ferry that transported people across the bay to the beach on the
barrier island. Jamie considered the ferry ride a special treat,
much more fun than going to the beach by car. He tumbled eagerly
out of Jody’s pickup, clutching his towel and a bucket for shells,
with Jody right behind, juggling two colorful five-foot noodle
floats.

“
We went ice skating yesterday,” Jamie
informed the ferry boat captain, who was an old friend. “Jody says
today she has to bake her bruises in the sun.”

With a twinkle in his eye, the elderly ferry
captain shoved his cap a half inch higher on his receding hairline.
“I surely don’t see any bruises, but then I’m getting old and maybe
my eyesight’s fading.” Solemnly, he winked at Jamie. “Or maybe I’ve
gotten old enough to know better’n to look too close.” Man and boy
exchanged grins, while Jody made a face.

The man in the BMW let out a string of
expletives. In the ferry’s grassy parking lot, which featured far
more pickups and boat trailers than sedans, his city slicker car
stuck out like a sore thumb. He glowered, reversed and drove away
in a manner far more reckless than his customary deliberate
caution. His tires squealed as he left the marl and bounced onto
the paved road, leaving a trail of white dust behind.

On Wednesday afternoon his wait was longer.
And damned nerve-wracking. Blasted third day in a row he’d waited
near Ginny Bentley’s driveway. Somebody was going to notice. But
the hunt was up. He knew exactly what he had to do, and nothing was
going to stop him.

His spirits perked up as Jody zipped by the
ferry dock and, several miles later, the skating rink as well. The
Beamer was behind the pickup when it entered the Tamiami Trail, but
dropped two cars back as soon as there was traffic to hide in. By
the time they bypassed the heart of Golden Beach and rumbled over
the bay bridge north of town, he began to suspect where they were
going.

At last. This was it. Fate had found a way.
It wasn’t quite what he’d planned, but, hell, he was flexible . .
.

It would do.

He glanced at his watch. Too early for Claire
to be home. His sources of information were excellent. He knew
she’d gone back to work right on schedule on Wednesday morning.
Come hell or high water, Amber Run must have its sales force in
place. So the great house would be empty. And an empty house meant
no deputy on duty.

Oh, yes. The place and time were here and
now.

Once again he parked the Beamer on the far
side of the inlet, watching intently as Jody backed and turned
until the rear end of the pickup was as close to Palm Court’s
kitchen door as she could get. Jody gave Jamie a boost into the
rear bed of the truck, where he began grabbing items and handing
them down to Jody who stacked them on the ground. After
considerable hauling and heaving, they staggered into the house,
weighed down by an array of bulging trash bags, pillow cases and
gym bags full of what the watcher realized must be all Jamie’s
worldly possessions.

Should he make his move now? Wait for a
second trip? There were plenty of bags left in the truck. He
glanced at his watch. Plenty of time. The earliest Claire could get
home was four-thirty.