Voices Carry (34 page)

John spewed coffee back into his cup.

“I mean, ah,” he cleared his throat, “this thing with Michael.”

“Oh, I’m going to go underground for a while—maybe a week—with Pats and Chrissie, just as you suggested.” She stood up and held her hand out to him. He took it, and with the other hand, dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “Then, when he’s good and crazy, we’ll let it be known somehow where I am. Sooner or later, he’ll come after me.”

“And we’ll be waiting for him,” John said as he pushed open the door. “Of course, that’s the short version. Subject to refinement. For now, it’s enough to know that you’re willing to disappear for a while.”

“And you’re willing to disappear with me?”

“Wither thou goest. . .” he kissed the tip of her nose.

“Well, then, that much is settled.” She slipped her arm through his and slowed the pace. “How does that song go?”

“Which song would that be?”

“The one you played on the jukebox? Moon something.”

“‘Blue Moon?’” He sung a few lines before slowing the tempo and taking her into his arms, slow dancing there in the parking lot in a halo of halogen from the light overhead.

He dipped his head to hers, and she stretched
upward, eager for the feel of his mouth on hers. His tongue slid between her lips and traced their outline slowly before seeking the warmth within. Holding her tighter, closer, he drew her into his body, his need for her increasing with every beat of his heart.

“Do you still have the envelope that I gave you earlier, the one with the room keys in it?” He disengaged himself long enough to ask.

“Yes.” She pulled him back to her.

“Did you happen to notice what the room numbers were?”

“Yes, 236.”

“What was the other?” he asked, wondering if one might be closer than the other.

“I think they were both 236.” She grinned.

“Well, then,” he lifted her from her feet and carried her across the parking lot. “Room 236 it is.”

“Put me down,” she laughed. “And stop at the car, please. I need the bag I left in the backseat.”

“Later,” he told her, pausing at the foot of the outside stairway that led up to the motel’s second level to set her on her feet, “I’ll come out for it later. Got the room key?”

“In my pocket.”

“That’s all we’ll need for now.”

They walked hand in hand up the steps, stopping once at the midlevel landing to look up into the night sky, where stars danced and thin fingers of dark clouds streaked across the face of the moon. From below, a trace of juniper rose from the narrow stretch of turf that separated the parking lot from the motel property, where someone had attempted a bit of landscaping.

“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” she asked as he slid the card into the door to open it.

“The most beautiful night in recent memory,” he agreed, after closing the door behind him and opening his arms, wordlessly inviting her to step inside. She did.

Desire washed over her in turbulent waves, demanding more and more of him. She wanted to feel him, to taste him, to know that he wanted the same of her. Mindless, with no thought but to become one with him, nothing but the need of him burning inside her, she let him lead her to a place where aching swirls of sensation skimmed her body and singed her soul. Together they fell onto the king-sized bed, together rolled across it, passion winding around them tightly like a rope that bound them ever closer. His mouth was everywhere, pressing heated kisses into ever more exposed skin as she pulled her shirt over her head and grappled with the buttons of his shirt in a desperate need to feel flesh against flesh. Somehow, her skirt had hiked up to her hips, and even as his lips traced a wet line from her throat to her breasts, somehow she managed to free him from his trousers. Arching her body to meet his, she drew him down with her legs until her reached her center, then offered herself to him wordlessly, and just as wordlessly, he slipped inside. She fisted her hands in his hair as he fed upon her, and gave in to the frantic rhythm of their bodies. Gasping, she called his name, over and over, until the world shattered around her and they both came tumbling down in a flood of pleasure so acute it bordered on pain.

“Oh. My. God.” She whispered when she could find her voice.

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” he chuckled softly, his head still resting on her chest, “though I’ll bet it’s even better with all your clothes off.”

“Really?” She lifted his head so that she could look into his eyes.

“That’s what I’ve heard. Of course, for some of us, it’s been so long, we have to rely on rumor.”

“It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Longer than I like to think about.” John leaned up on one elbow. “The last time we were together, was at your apartment. Right before Woods got really crazy and had me—”

“No,” she pressed her fingers to his lips. “I’m done with the past, all of it. I’m tired of cursing Woods for what he did to you, and I’m tired of waking up in the middle of the night, tired of the nightmares. I want it done with. Hell, John, I’ve spent so much time looking back, I’ve forgotten how to look ahead. I want to look ahead. I want to have that future we used to talk about. I want to believe in dreams again.”

“The dream’s the same, Gen. It hasn’t changed.”

She traced the line of his jaw, content for the moment to bask in the love she saw in his eyes. “I wish I could see ahead to what’s in store for us.”

“Well, I have a pretty good idea of what’s in store for the rest of the night.” He rolled over and pulled her on top of him.

“You lead, then,” she grinned, settling down on him and feeling him stir inside her, “and I’ll follow. For now, that’s enough. That’s more than enough. . .”

*   *   *

Genna had just finished showering the next morning when John tapped on the door.

“I brought your bag in from the car,” he told her. “It’s right outside the bathroom door.”

“Thanks,” she called back.

Wrapping one towel around her body and another around her hair, Genna opened the door.

“John,” she said, “do you think we should call—”

She had stepped out into the room’s small vestibule. John stood in front of the television, watching Calvin Sharpe on the first-hour edition of a popular morning show.

“And the FBI thinks that this man is behind the disappearances of the twelve women who have gone missing from as many states over the past several weeks?” the usually perky host was asking.

“Yes. Yes, we do.” Sharpe cleared his throat. “We’ll be holding a press conference at nine this morning, but we’re so sure that someone—possibly many someones—have seen him, that we did not want to run the risk of having a potential witness miss seeing this tape because they left early for work. We’ve sent this videotape to every network and major news show, and we’re asking that it be run over and over until we find him.”

“Let’s run the tape,” the host signaled to the technical staff, then watched silently as the tape of Michael Homer played once, twice, three times, the last in slow motion.

“If anyone thinks they recognize him, what should they do?”

“Call the number that should be running across the bottom of the television screen,” Sharpe told her, then paused to ask, “Is it there? They said the number would be there.”

“It’s there,” the host nodded. “But if the number isn’t handy, could someone call their closest FBI office or their local police?”

“Absolutely.” Sharpe nodded. “As long as we get the information as soon as possible.”

“I understand there’s been a ten-thousand dollar reward offered. Would that have anything to do with the fact that the FBI suspects that a potential victim is one of its own? Do I understand that Agent. . .” she glanced down at her notes, “Genna Snow—who is, ironically, on the special team assigned to investigate the abductions—is thought to be a potential target by this suspect?”

Sharpe nodded, and began to explain Genna’s history with Michael Homer.

“I wish he’d waited a day or so to get into that,” John noted. “I’m not sure that now is the time to give out so much information about you.”

“Why not? What’s the difference?” She picked up the bag he’d brought in for her.

“Well, I would have liked to have had a day or so to get you out of the way.” He turned to look at her, and in his dark eyes she could see a trace of fear.

“He’s not going to get me, John. Whatever else happens, he will not win this time.” She went back into the bathroom and closed the door.

John sat down on the edge of the bed, and tried not to sweat. Having Genna back in his life was a miracle he’d waited a year for. The fear of losing her again, of having her fall into the hands of Michael Homer turned his insides to water.

Well, then,
he told himself,
whatever it takes, we’ll have to find him first. Genna’s absolutely right about this. Wherever he is, we’ll just have to find him before he finds
Genna. One way or another. Because he cannot, he will not, have her. . .

“What are you thinking?” Genna asked as she emerged from the bathroom dressed in khaki pants and a short-sleeved red tee, her hair still damp and curling around her face.

“I’m thinking about how much I love you,” he told her simply. “And how I would kill him with my bare hands, if I had to, to keep you safe.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I don’t like that image,” she told him as she put her arms around his neck. “Though I do like the other part. About how much you love me.”

“I do,” he whispered. “You know I do. I always have.”

“I do know.” Her hands rested on either side of his face. “I love you, too. I’m so sorry that it took me so long to think things through. I think I just loved you so much, that I couldn’t even think of going through the pain of losing you again.”

“You won’t have to,” John kissed the side of her mouth where the ends turned up. “I promise you that.”

“Well, then,” she smoothed his shirt collar. “I guess it’s time to get on with it. What do we do first?”

“First we go to the lake and we pick up Patsy and Chrissie,” he told her, “then we fly to Atlantic City Airport, where we will be picked up by Angie’s brothers-in-law.”

“Carmen’s brothers?” Genna’s brows knit together. “Why?”

“Because Michael might make it past the FBI, but he’ll never make it past the Philly mob.”

“You are kidding, right? Tell me you did not call out the DelVecchio boys?”

“Yes, I’m kidding. Of course, I’m kidding.” He forced a smile. “Now throw your stuff in your bag. We have a plane to catch.”

“Are we really going to Atlantic City?”

“I’m not sure where we’re headed. Sharpe is going to meet us at the airport in Erie and we’ll talk about it. He wants as few people as possible to know where we’re going.”

“Your boss is coming out to meet us?” She paused as she gathered her things.

“So I’ve been told.” He walked to the door of the room and waited for her.

“Well, then,” Genna turned off the lights and swung her bag over her shoulder, “let’s not keep him waiting.”

He caught her by the wrist as she walked past him.

“We will find him, Gen,” he promised her.

“I know we will.” She smiled up at him, then stood on tiptoe to kiss his mouth softly. “Now let’s get started. There are twelve frantic families out there waiting to find out where their loved ones are. Let’s see if we can find them.”

He stood staring at the television incredulously, watching the image of the bearded man walk through the doors of the car dealership.

“Son of a bitch!” He shouted. “SON OF A BITCH!”

Panic began to rise within him as he watched the video. And continued to rise, as he listened to Calvin Sharpe describe the manhunt that was, even at that moment, being put into place.

“All right,” he said aloud, forcing himself to take a deep, calming breath. “Mother always said you couldn’t think right when your mind was in a churn.” And right now, God knew, his mind was churning.

He turned up the volume just a little, and forced himself to sit and listen quietly, lest he miss some important tidbit of information that he might be able to use to his advantage.

“. . . organizing a manhunt,” the FBI agent on the television was saying.

And then he laughed out loud.

“Oh, that’s rich. That’s truly rich.”

His laughter was short-lived, however, when he heard Genna’s name.

“. . . being sent to a safe house until Michael Homer has been caught.”

A safe house?

He lifted the blinds, affording him a fine view of the whitewashed cottage and the lake beyond. Patsy stood on the front lawn, looking down the road and shielding her eyes from the sun, as if looking for something. Or someone.

No, no, that would be too obvious, they’d never let Genna come back here.

Or would they? He pondered the possibilities. Might they be playing with him? Cat and mouse?

He looked out the window again, just as the big orange tabby sauntered across the grass and rolled over at Patsy’s feet, and he grinned.

He just loved it when there was a sign.

“So. The FBI thinks they are the cat and I am the mouse,” he tapped his fingers lightly on the window ledge. Perhaps a word or two with Patsy might go a long way to finding out when that cat thinks it might pounce.

He slipped on his sunglasses and unlocked the front door, heading toward the woman who had now walked as far as the mailbox.

“Hi,” he called to her.

Patsy looked up, and waved at his approach, as if relieved to see him.

If
she
knew,
he’d
know in no time flat.

This would be all too easy. Like taking candy from a baby, he sighed.

And then his collection would be complete.

Revenge would be so sweet.

Patsy paced back and forth, wondering where Crystal could have disappeared to. Lately, the young woman had gotten into the habit of walking early in the morning, taking a brisk stroll around to the other side of the lake and back again before breakfast. But usually she’d returned by this time. Patsy poured herself another cup of coffee and sipped at it thoughtfully.