Shadowkiller (16 page)

“No, not that . . .”

He was watching her, waiting for her to go on. She looked away and her gaze fell on the group of men at the next table, the ones with the dark shirts and pinky rings.

Her head was spinning. How could she make Mack stop asking questions she couldn't answer?

“Carrie . . . ?”

“I've never told anyone this.” She shifted her eyes back to Mack. “I mean, maybe it's okay, after all these years, but maybe . . . maybe I still shouldn't be talking about it.”

She half expected him to tell her that it was okay, she didn't have to. But she could see the curiosity in his eyes, and she knew he wasn't going to let her off the hook that easily.

So she took a deep breath, and, feeling as though she were inching out on a tightrope that was as sturdy as thread, she said it.

“Witness protection program.”

“What about it?”

“I was in it. Growing up.”

Mack's eyes widened. “You're kidding.”

“Why would I kid about something like that?”

“You wouldn't,” he said quickly. “I'm sorry. I was just surprised. What happened?”

“When I was really young,” she said, “I lived with my parents in a city, and something happened—it involved my father. He got into some kind of trouble, and his life—our lives—were in danger. So we . . . you know . . . disappeared.”

“What did—”

“I was too young to remember. All I know was that one day, we were living a normal life, and after that, we weren't. Even after we were settled into our new life, we had to pick up and move again, without any warning.”

“Where did it all start?”

“I have no idea. Like I said, it was a city—I don't know which one, though, or even which part of the country. I don't even know what my name was when I was born.”

“So Carrie Robinson isn't your real name?”

“It's real enough. It's who I am.”

“But who
were
you?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, but . . . aren't you curious? Didn't your parents ever fill you in?” Mack asked. “Later, I mean.”

“No.”

“You mean they refused to tell you?”

“I mean I never asked. What did it matter? All I knew was that I'd had a normal life, and then one day, suddenly, I didn't.”

The waitress showed up with a pot of coffee, and Mack and Carrie waited silently as she turned over one of the two cups on the table and filled it. She set down a metal creamer and a little dish of sugar packets and artificial sweeteners, and left.

“What happened, exactly, with your father? I mean, was he involved in criminal activity himself? Or was he just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Did he see something he shouldn't have seen?”

“I have no idea,” she said for the second time in as many minutes. “I just don't know what happened.”

“Really?”

Again, she bristled. “
Really
.”

They shouldn't be talking about this.
She
shouldn't be talking about this. It was dangerous.

She reached for the creamer and dumped some into her coffee. Feeling Mack's eyes on her, she opened a sugar packet and poured it in, and then another, even though she didn't ordinarily take her coffee sweetened.

“I'm just trying to understand,” Mack said. “So you didn't ever ask him for the details?”

She picked up a spoon and stirred vigorously. “No. It didn't matter to me.”

“Why not?”

Irked that he wouldn't just drop it, she suddenly wished she'd fled his parents' house earlier and not looked back. This was much harder than she'd expected.

Already, she was in over her head.

He was waiting.

She forced herself to look up and meet his gaze head on. “This is really hard for me. I told you, I never talked about it before with anyone. I don't . . . it's not something I'm comfortable doing.”

He reached across the table and took her hand in both of his. His grasp was big and warm.

“It's okay, Carrie. I'm glad you told me. I'm honored. I figured you weren't the type who let your guard down very easily, but I had no idea that the reason was this intense.”

Oh, Mack, if you only knew . . .

She was unaccustomed to the depth of the emotions that coursed through her as she sat looking into his kind green eyes. What had begun with casual interest and mere attraction had given way to fierce longing. She wanted this man—this deliciously ordinary man. Wanted him in every way; wanted him to want her, to need her, to love her.

She had never imagined that such a thing was possible, and now that she'd glimpsed what might be . . .

This was it for her. There was no turning back now.

“Here we are . . . apple pie, two forks.” The waitress was back, setting a plate on the table between them. “Enjoy, guys.”

Mack nodded, but didn't break his eye contact with Carrie. When they were alone again, he gave her hands another squeeze. “Are you okay?”

“I am.”

“I have one last question for you.”

Uh-oh.

The tightrope wobbled again.

“What is it?”

“Why me?” he asked.

“Why . . . you?”

“You said you never told anyone your story. After all these years of keeping people at arm's length . . . why did you finally choose to let someone in? Why tonight? Why me?”

Relieved by the question, she dared to answer it with utter honesty. “I guess it was just . . . there was something about you that made me want to let you in. That made me want to know you.”

He smiled. “My sparkling wit? My dashing good looks? What was it?”

She shrugged, shook her head, thinking about how snug her hand was with his wrapped around it. “You just felt safe.”

“I'm glad.”

He nodded, as if that was all settled then, and let go of her hand. He picked up the forks and offered one to her. “You have to have pie.”

“No, thank you.”

“You sure? It's really good here.”

She took a fork and tasted it, because he wanted to share it.

“Do you like it?”

She nodded.

“I knew you would. I've been coming here for years. The food is a lot better than you'd think. But next time, I promise, I'll take you out to a great dinner in Manhattan.”

Next time. Finally, she managed a smile.

“I mean, two strikes so far . . . I can't afford a third.”

“Two strikes?”

“I took you to a pub on our first date. And now a diner. Some women wouldn't like it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you talking about Chelsea?”

He looked startled. “Chelsea? How did you know about her?”

“You told me. Remember?”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “I guess I've had so much on my mind lately I can't remember what I told you.”

She's had a lot on her mind, too—but she knows damned well she's not going to forget a single detail about what she told him tonight.

“You told me about Chelsea,” she says.

“I guess it must have been pretty memorable, considering that you actually remember her name. Did I say she was an evil bitch or something?”

“Not . . . you didn't say
that
, exactly.”

“I didn't? Are you sure?” He laughed.

“
Was
she?”

“You could say that. Or
I
could say it. Hell, I could say a lot of things—but I don't want to waste my breath on Chelsea. She's not worth it.”

No. She certainly isn't
, Carrie thought, watching him stab his fork into the pie.
She's not worth your breath, and she's not worth the air she breathes. Guess I'll just have to do something about that.

Chapter Nine

L
ower Manhattan's skyline, topped off by the twin towers of the World Trade Center, was tinted with the first pinkish streaks of dawn as the yellow cab turned onto Chelsea's street just off West Broadway.

She'd been expecting Andrew to send her home with his personal chauffeur, but maybe he didn't have one. She'd almost asked about it, but decided not to. She didn't want him to think she was a gold digger.

It was enough, for now, to have been wined and dined at the Pierre, then bedded in a lovely suite upstairs.

When he'd suggested a private nightcap, she'd expected him to take her back to his place, but he said he was having renovations done.

Maybe that was true.

Or maybe he had a live-in girlfriend, or even a wife. Who knew? Who cared? Just potential small obstacles, as far as Chelsea was concerned. She had her sights set on Andrew, and she was going to get him.

He was just as handsome as she remembered from the first night, and impeccably dressed. She wished he knew his way around a woman's anatomy as well as he did a wine list, but was willing to chalk up his rather perfunctory performance to first-time jitters and, yes, all that pinot noir he'd had.

They'd really hit it off in every other possible way.

Well, other than the fact that he abhorred cigarettes. When she asked if he minded if she lit up, he said that he did, then launched into an antismoking tirade she tried to tune out as much as possible. It was okay. Maybe she'd quit for him. Or maybe she'd just sneak them when he was around.

At least the conversation never once lagged—though if it had, she was armed with a mental list of questions to ask him. He answered most of them without being asked, telling her almost everything she wanted to know about him, plus a lot of extra information that was—well, not boring, exactly, but . . .

All right. It
was
boring. It could have just been that she was tired after a long workweek, or simply wasn't in the right mood to hear about his starring role in boarding school rugby matches, or his recent business trip to Saskatchewan. She was sure he was full of fascinating stories about other things, and that he'd get around to asking her about herself on their next date.

Of course, there would be one, because when they parted ways on the street in front of the hotel, he'd said, “I'll call you.”

Maybe there would already be a message waiting on her home answering machine, she thought, and eagerly reached for the car door handle as the taxi pulled to a stop outside her building.

“Hey, lady!” the cabbie said as she started to climb out. “The fare?”

“My fiancé took care of it,” she reminded him.
Fiancé
. She liked the sound of that. “Remember? He told you to keep the change?”

“Your
fiancé
—” his tone made it clear he didn't buy that for one second—“gave me ten bucks. The fare is twelve-seventy-five.”

Ten bucks?

Chelsea had figured Andrew was giving him a twenty, or even a fifty. In fact . . . how did she know he hadn't?

“I suggest that you look again,” she said haughtily. “Why would he give you a ten?” Even if he had, it must have been a mistake. He probably thought it was a twenty. Or a fifty.

“Sure, I'll look again. Oh yeah, you're right, he didn't give me a ten . . .”

Aha
.

“He gave me two fives.” He waved them at her.

“What proof do I have that you're not lying?”

“Call your
fiancé
and ask him . . .
if
you have his phone number.”

She was too incensed to think of a snappy comeback.

“Look, just pay the rest of your fare, lady, and I'll get out of your hair, okay?”

Chelsea fumbled in the white silk bag that exactly matched the dress she was wearing, came up with three singles, and tossed them into the front seat. “Here. Keep the change,
okay
?”

She heard the obscenity he threw at her just before she slammed the door, and she returned it under her breath.

Storming toward her building as fast as she could on the pair of barely-broken-in five-inch strappy silver stilettos she'd bought yesterday, she heard the taxi pull away and screech around the corner.

She repeated the obscenity, this time louder, just before she noticed the homeless person huddled on the sidewalk a few feet away from the entrance to her building. He appeared to be asleep. If he wasn't, he might think she'd been directing the profane phrase at him. Well, so be it. Vagrants weren't welcome on this block. Chelsea made a mental note to inform the landlord that the neighborhood was going downhill and she deserved a rent reduction.

Then again, maybe she shouldn't bother, she thought, as she stood in front of the door feeling around inside her bag for her keys and the pack of Salems she hadn't touched in hours.

Maybe she'd soon be moving in with Andrew uptown, once his renovations were completed or his girlfriend had been kicked to the curb or whatever—

The thought was curtailed by a rush of movement behind her . . .

Much too close behind her.

Now what? Had she pissed off that bum? Was he going to do something about it? Was she going to be attacked or mugged right here on her doorstep?

No way. Absolutely no freaking way, she thought, and started to turn.

“Don't move,” a voice whispered harshly, and something jabbed into her ribs.

She went still.

“Unlock the door. Don't make a sound. Hurry up.”

Chelsea's hand shook as she felt around in her bag. A lipstick, a comb, a compact—she couldn't use any of those things to fight back, dammit. At last she found the key, and it took her several tries to insert it into the lock.

“Hurry up!” the voice whispered again, and she was prodded once more from behind with what could only be a gun.

Chelsea unlocked the door and pushed it open, knowing he was going to rape her, sickened at the thought of it.

“Go ahead, get inside. Walk to your apartment. And I know which one it is, so don't try anything. Make a sound, and you're dead.”

It's not a man
, she realized.
It's a woman
.

Thank God. Thank God rape wasn't going to happen. She could handle anything but that.

“I'll give you whatever you want,” she said softly, forcing her wobbling shoes to carry her to the stairway. “I have money upstairs, and some jewelry.”

Money—maybe twenty bucks that would be in her wallet, which was still tucked inside the purse she'd carried to work today, along with some subway tokens.

And jewelry? She owned plenty of costume pieces, even a few that could pass for the real thing—but there was no way she'd give this creep the diamond tennis bracelet she'd inherited from her stepmother, or her emerald earrings, which she'd have been wearing right now if Tiffany had loaned her the green Dior to wear tonight.

I'm glad you were so selfish
, she silently told her friend.
Thanks to you, those earrings are safe and sound and hidden away where this thieving bitch will never find them.

The building's public hallways and stairway were deserted at this hour. If Chelsea screamed, someone would come to help her—but by then, she'd be shot dead. Unless it wasn't a real gun in her ribs—not that she was willing to take any chances and find out.

Up one flight they went, and down the hall to apartment 2C.

“Unlock the door.”

“I
am
,” Chelsea bit out, trying to get the key into the lock, and was rewarded with another sharp nudge in the back.

“Be quiet.”

“I
am
.” This time, she whispered.

She opened the door and started to step into the apartment, but was shoved roughly from behind. She cried out as she stumbled forward and caught herself on the back of a chair. Her thoughts spun as she clung to it, trying to regroup, wondering if she could possibly grab a lamp or something to use as a weapon.

No. She'd have had to act in the two seconds it took her assailant to close and lock the door behind them; it was already too late for that.

“Stand up straight,” the voice commanded. “Turn around.”

Chelsea did as she was told and came face-to-face with her attacker at last.

The woman wore baggy clothes that included a hooded jacket pulled tight around her head, leaving only a small circle of face visible. It was dark in here; Chelsea could barely see a tuft of dark hair, a protruding white nose, and eyes that were narrowed into slits of fury.

“You don't even know why I'm here, do you?”

About to answer, Chelsea spotted the small flashlight she was holding. Was that what had been prodding into her back?

Before she could react, the woman revealed a big knife in her other hand. “Don't try anything. Believe me, I'll use this.”

And that, Chelsea realized, would be a different kind of attack than the one she had envisioned.

With a gun, you took aim and pulled the trigger. With a knife, you had to get close enough to use it.

If I don't give her an opportunity to do that
, she thought wildly,
I can get away.

She'd still be taking a chance—a huge one. After a long evening in these shoes, she could barely walk, let alone run.

But, fixated on that sharp blade, she now realized this wasn't just a random mugging. Muggers carried guns, or switchblades, maybe. Not chef knives with long, tapered blades.

If she tried to escape, she might die. If she didn't try, she most certainly would.

“
Do
you, Chelsea?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you even know why I'm here!” The woman was no longer whispering, and there was something familiar about her voice.

“No, I don't.” Chelsea looked more closely at the circle of face, trying to see if it was recognizable.

“Because of him.”

“Because of who? Andrew?” And then it dawned on her.

That day, maybe a few weeks ago . . . or was it this week? It must have been this past week, because she'd just met Andrew last weekend. Yes, she was leaving her office building with Tiffany, and a stranger had come up to her, claiming to be an old school friend.

This was that woman.

“Who's Andrew? What are you talking about?”

“What are
you
talking about?” Chelsea shot back, momentarily as furious with herself as she was with the woman, remembering something wasn't quite right that day. And then later, on the subway, she'd felt like she was being followed, even though she'd glimpsed the woman's face.

“I'm talking about what you did to Mack!”

Mack . . .

Mack . . . ? The guy she'd dated recently?

This was about
him
?

“I didn't do anything to Mack. I don't—”

“Shut up!”

Clamping her mouth shut, Chelsea took a step back.

“I'm his girl! Do you understand?
Me!
Not you!”

“That's fine. Seriously. I'm not—”

“Just because he lives with
you
instead of with me now doesn't mean—”

“Wait, what?” It was Chelsea's turn to interrupt—maybe not the best idea, but she couldn't help herself; this lunatic had it all wrong. “Mack doesn't live with me! I live alone!”

“Don't you dare lie to me! Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I don't know what's been going on?”

“It's not a lie! It's the truth! Go ahead, look around. None of his things are here. He doesn't live here. I haven't even seen him in weeks!”

“You're lying! How do you think I found out you even exist? I followed him here, and I saw you with him. I saw you, and you had Papoose! Papoose was mine!”

What was she talking about? Chelsea felt panic beginning to take hold; felt her body beginning to quake and a cold, clammy sweat oozing from her skin.

“You didn't even know about me until now, did you? He didn't even bother to tell you, did he? Did he?”

She was screaming now. Praying someone would overhear and call the police, Chelsea took another step backward.

The woman moved closer and her eyes were no longer angry little slits; they were wide and wild and full of accusation that made no sense at all.

She's crazy
, Chelsea realized.
She's truly crazy, and she has a knife, and . . .

And she's not here to rob me. She's here to kill me.

Summoning every ounce of calm her body would allow, she said, “Look, you can have him. I mean it. He's all yours.”

“He is not! He's all
yours
. I hate you, Allison!”

Allison?

Dear God, no wonder there's no logic to what she's saying. She doesn't even know who I am.

Wait a minute. She
did
know. She'd called Chelsea by her own name just a minute ago. Now she was calling her Allison, as if something had snapped inside her and she'd lost her grip on reality.

“Listen to me, you obviously have me mixed up with someone else!” Chelsea was desperate to get through to her, to bring her back from the brink of violence. “My name isn't—”

“Shut your mouth!”

Chelsea tried again to back away, but her heel hit the wall behind her. She was literally cornered, and if she didn't convince this delusional stranger that her name wasn't Allison and she wasn't living with Mack . . .

The edge of the knife settled against Chelsea's throat.

If I don't convince her, then
I'm going to die. Right now.

“All those times he told me he was working, he was really with
you
. All the times I needed him and he couldn't be there for me, it was because of
you
.”