Snake Skin (22 page)

She pulled him inside and shut the door
behind him. Too late. He was trapped.

"You're such a sap, Burroughs. Always
falling in love at first sight. But you have your damn code of
honor. Worse, you actually believe in honor." She tossed her head,
strands of hair flitting across his neck, sparking against his
sweat-sheened skin. "You think that makes you special, but really
it makes you a fool."

She combed her fingers through his hair,
then forced his head down so that he looked her in the eyes. He
felt a flutter start in his stomach—anger and fear and disgust and
lust all kicking at his guts, fighting to see which would win.

"As soon as I saw her wedding band, I knew I
would have you tonight," she continued.

She was wrong. His being here had nothing to
do with Guardino. It had everything to do with him. He couldn't
face being alone in that empty apartment. He didn't like to think
that he needed anything, but he needed her. Someone. Anyone.

Her mouth met his. Before he could respond,
she bit his lower lip. Laughed when he jerked his head away, raised
a hand to wipe the blood.

"Go to hell, Cindy."

"Only if you come along for the ride." She
shrugged free from the robe, its fabric caressing her curves as it
cascaded to the floor. He reached for her and she didn't resist.
Instead, she melted beneath his greedy touch as he grabbed on and
refused to let go.

Lucy left the Subaru in the driveway. No
sense risking waking someone with the sound of the garage door,
especially when she'd soon be leaving again. She walked in through
the front door—the door usually only strangers and guests used—and
made her way to the kitchen in the dark. The light over the stove
was on, providing a warm welcome.

In movements so practiced she didn't stop to
think about them, she safed her Glock, putting the ammo on top of
the refrigerator and leaving the empty weapon in its special pocket
in her bag. Then she kicked off her shoes and opened the
fridge.

She wasn't hungry until she saw the neon
post-it note on a plate of chicken salad.
Eat me,
it
ordered. Beside it sat a large tumbler of milk labeled with the
command:
Drink me.

Shaking her head, she removed both and sat
down at the table where a place waited for her. Images of Ashley
raced through her mind as she started to eat. Terrified? Or
laughing at them?

They were quickly replaced with thoughts of
Megan: did she have another fever tonight? Was her throat still
sore? Or had Lucy over-reacted, taking her into the doctor this
morning?

Yesterday morning, she corrected herself,
glancing at the clock. The second hand beat then twitched, beat
then twitched.

As if each second ticked away left it
breathless and palsied. Yet, it wouldn't stop.

Lucy swallowed the rest of her food and set
the dishes in the sink. She tried to be quiet, but hadn't
discovered a way to climb the staircase without producing a
symphony of creaky groans. She stopped at Megan's room.

Megan lay asleep, seemed comfortable. A full
glass of water sat at her bedside. Lucy crept in, knelt beside her,
felt her face with her palm. Maybe a little warm, but it was a hot
and humid night. Her breathing was raspy, not quite as bad as her
father's snoring, a bit congested.

Maybe it was just a cold after all. Or
allergies. Lucy kissed her on the cheek, arranged her covers and
stood watching her.

Megan's room was a mess—as it always was,
now that it was her responsibility. Her kingdom. The deal was, as
long as she kept up with her laundry, had clean clothes for school,
and didn't leave any food or dirty plates up here, she could do
what she wanted with the room.

It was so very different from Ashley's room.
Here, the fabrics and colors were bright and clashing. Beads hung
in the open closet door, photos were taped all over the mirror, the
wall without windows was a crazy collage of pages torn out of
magazines and newspapers—things that "spoke" to her, Megan said.
CD's and books and magazines and dirty laundry all piled together
on the floor. The only sacrosanct area was the top shelf of the
bookcase where framed photos of family and friends and Megan's
soccer and Karate trophies stood.

This was how a girl's room should look. Full
of life. Hopeful.

Lucy blew her daughter another kiss and
left.

Nick was asleep in their bedroom at the end
of the hallway. She crept past him into their bathroom, closing the
door before turning on the light.

Her thoughts still buzzed and, despite how
tired she was, she knew she'd have a hard time sleeping. She took a
quick shower, hoping to strip away some of the stress of the day,
and slid into her side of the bed.

Nick rolled over, curled an arm around her
shoulders, pulling her into his chest. And held her. Not asking
anything, not demanding anything, just there for her.

It never ceased to amaze her, after so many
years, how much she needed him. Needed this. These silent moments
where she could pretend the outside world didn't exist.

His fingers danced through her wet hair as
she listened to the strong, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Finally
her body relaxed, easing into his familiar contours.

"How was your day?" she asked. "Megan
feeling better?"

"Said she was achy, but no more fever. I
gave her some Advil before bed."

"She seemed fine when I just checked
her."

"Maybe it was a twenty-four hour bug. With
school starting, the kids share everything."

"Yeah, that's what the doctor said. You had
a new client today, didn't you? How'd that go?"

The Pittsburgh VA didn't have an opening for
someone with Nick's expertise, so he had started his own practice.
Because he was the new kid in a city brimming over with
world-renown psychologists, he was offering weekend and evening
hours as an enticement. Which played hell with their home schedule,
not to mention the added expense of setting up an office, but he
was really enjoying the work, so Lucy didn't mind.

"Good. Guy's a vet from the first Gulf war,
Holtzman referred him after he got fed up with the clinic. I think
I can really help him."

"Of course you can." She shifted her body so
their heads were side by side on the pillows. Her palm smoothed
over his sparse chest hair. He lay his hand over hers, his fingers
weaving between hers.

"I heard about your case on the news.
Sounded like a tough one."

Her sigh was swallowed by the night. "Yeah.
This kid—fourteen, in a house full of everything money can buy, two
parents who say they love her—yet she's so alone. I get the feeling
she's been that way for a long, long time."

"You think she ran away? To something
better?"

"I think she ran away. To something worse."
Her gaze flicked to the numbers on the bedside clock.
3:42—thirty-eight hours since Ashley had been last seen.

"If anyone can find her, it's you." He
pulled her close again.

"Wish I could be so certain." Her eyelids
drooped as her breathing synchronized with his.

"I am."

Blackness engulfed her as she fell into
sleep.

Before she could finish the journey, panic
jolted her awake and upright. "Did my mom get back from her date
okay?"

Nick was far gone. "Dunno," he mumbled. Then
he was asleep again.

Lucy envied him. She grabbed her cell from
the bedside table. Double checked it for messages. Nothing. Her
finger quivered over the buttons, poised to call her mom. Almost
four in the morning. She couldn't call, not for anything less than
an emergency.

She set the phone back down, this time right
on the edge of the table, trimming a millisecond or two off her
response time. If it rang.

Laying back on the pillow, she edged into
sleep. Visions of Megan, her mother, Nick, Ashley chased through
her mind….and snakes. Hissing, biting, coiled, striking snakes,
fangs dripping blood and venom.

Jimmy's butt was asleep. But he couldn't stop
watching. It had been hours and she hadn't moved—not an inch. If it
wasn't for the microphone picking up the sound of her breathing,
he'd swear she was dead.

She looked so lost, so alone. He wanted
desperately to go to her, comfort her, let her know that he was
here for her.

But he didn't. He stuck with the plan.

Although he had double-checked his
references. The one from Vietnam had been most helpful:
Catatonia. A result of internal conflict when the subject cannot
incorporate conditions of new reality in terms of old values. Last
stage prior to old values being discarded and new reality becoming
acceptable, frequently associated with delusions and
hallucinations.

Tomorrow, he thought, stretching his fingers
to touch her face on the screen. Tomorrow he would take her to the
next stage, introduce her to her new world.

Tomorrow he would save her from the ghosts
of her past.

Chapter 19

Sunday 6:08 am

Sometime before dawn Lucy woke, feeling
restless and irritated and needy. Nick was happy to oblige when she
reached for him; morning was his favorite time to make love.

Lucy straddled him, needing to feel in
control, and they made love quietly, still uncertain of how sound
traveled in this creaky new house of theirs with Megan only two
doors down at the end of the hall. His hands feathered over her,
coaxing, guiding, never demanding—not until the end when his hips
thrust up, meeting hers, and the bed rocked and groaned as they
both climaxed.

She remained on top, curled up, her arms and
legs clutching either side of his chest as if fearful someone might
steal him away. Nick fell back asleep but she couldn't, her mind
chasing young girls and dark demons and slick talking monsters.

Finally she clawed her way out from under
the covers and got ready to go to work. She filled her thermos with
coffee, making sure there'd be enough left for Nick, and defrosted
two sticky buns for him and Megan. Special Sunday treat.

Before she left, she found herself in
Megan's room. It was barely seven o'clock. She wasn't going to wake
Megan. She just wanted to look at her, make sure she was all
right.

Megan stirred as Lucy sat on the edge of the
mattress, twisting her wedding ring, watching her daughter. Megan's
breathing was still congested, her color pale in the sunlight
filtering through yellow gauze curtains. Lucy brushed her hand
across Megan's cheeks. They felt cool and dry. She bent over,
kissed Megan's forehead. Also cool.

She traced her fingers along Megan's neck.
The glands there still felt big, the size of walnuts. Their old
doctor had once said that they'd normally be around the size of a
peanut. He'd also said the same thing as the new doctor. That
swollen glands were usually a healthy sign of the immune system
fighting off disease.

Unable to restrain herself, she bundled
Megan into her arms. "Hey sleeping beauty," she murmured when Megan
squirmed awake. "Just wanted you to know that I love you."

Megan pulled away from her mother's embrace,
one hand rubbing at her eyes. "Mom." She smothered a yawn. "Why do
you
always
have to do this? I'm fine."

"I know you are." Lucy gave her another
kiss, this one on the cheek.

Megan wrinkled her nose. "Yuck. You smell
like coffee."

"Love you too." Lucy relented and stood to
leave. "I'll probably be gone all day again."

"Whatever." Megan shielded her eyes from the
morning sun and burrowed into her pillow.

Lucy took a step toward the door, stopped.
Megan already was falling back to sleep. She hesitated. "Hey. You
know that if you or your friends ever needed anything or wanted to
talk or whatever...You know your dad and I are here for you,
right?"

"Mom, just go find that girl everyone's
talking about so you can stop bugging me already." Megan pried open
one eye. "Okay?" She drew the word out to three long-suffering
syllables.

Lucy stood rooted, unable to tear her eyes
away from her daughter's rumpled dark hair standing on end, the
ancient soccer jersey she wore as a night shirt, or the tattered
teddy bear standing guard over her from the other side of the
bed.

"I love you, Mom," Megan sighed, a grand
concession. Didn't bother opening her eyes as she said the words
Lucy had been aching to hear.

"Love you too, Kalamazoo."

Megan groaned at the childhood frivolity and
rolled over, her back to Lucy once more.

Cindy woke kneeling face down on her bedroom
floor, one wrist handcuffed to the bed frame. Burroughs rarely
allowed her to sleep in the bed with him—not unless she appeased
him more than she had last night. And she made him earn everything
she gave him. Those were her rules.

Before moving or opening her eyes, she
listened. Hard. No sounds of life, the apartment was empty.
Burroughs was gone. Sometimes he liked to stick around, watch her
struggle to free herself, taunt her. Sometimes he caught a second
wind in the morning and he'd take her on the floor, any way he
wanted—any way she let him. Not today.

She smiled and stretched her arm out,
reaching for the handcuff key she'd taped to the bottom of the
nightstand. After last night, she doubted Burroughs would have a
second wind for a long, long time. Hard to believe an old guy—he
was forty-one to her twenty-seven—could keep it up like he had last
night. She'd never seen him so….needy. They'd done it twice before
even reaching the bedroom, their usual tug of war, both fighting
for control until she decided when to surrender.

Her body was sore and bruised. She was
certain he'd left hand prints on her butt and arms. Not to mention
various scratches and bite marks. She rolled over onto her back,
enjoying the way the plush chenille rug caressed her naked skin.
Burroughs had been chasing demons last night, and she'd been happy
to torture his soul and reap the benefits.