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Which one was it? Was it that bleached blonde, Marci Dean, who swished her ass in front of all the men like she was some goddess and they were nothing but dogs who would come running whenever she wanted? He had heard she would sleep with anyone who asked, but that most of the time she beat them to the punch. His mother would have been appalled at such trashy behavior.
“Some people don’t deserve to live.”
He could hear her whisper inside his head, the way she often did when he didn’t take the pills. He wasn’t the only one who disappeared when he took the medication the way they instructed; Mother disappeared, too. Maybe they went away together. He didn’t know, but he hoped so. Maybe she punished him for taking the pills and making her disappear. Maybe that was why he took the pills, so he and Mother could go away and … No, that wasn’t right. When he took the pills, it was as if he didn’t exist.
He felt the thought slipping away from him. All he knew was that he didn’t want to take the pills. He wanted to find out which bitch was which. That sounded funny so he repeated it to himself, and silently laughed. Which bitch was which. That was good.
He knew where they all lived. He had gotten their addresses from their files at work. It was so easy, for anyone who knew how, and of course no one had questioned him.
He would go to her house and find out if she was the one who had said that awful, stupid thing. He was pretty sure it was Marci. He wanted to teach that stupid, vicious bitch a lesson. Mother would be so pleased.
Marci was a night owl, even during the workweek. She didn’t need much sleep, so even though she didn’t party nearly as hearty as she had when she was younger—say, in her thirties—she seldom went to bed before one A.M. She watched old movies on television; she read three or four books a week; she had even developed a fondness for cross-stitching. She had to laugh at herself whenever she picked up her cross-stitch hoop, because this had to be proof the party girl was getting old. But she could empty out her mind when she was working cross-stitch. Who needed meditation to gain inner serenity when she could get the same effect by duplicating with needle and thread a small colored pattern of Xs? At least when she had completed a pattern, she had something to show for it.
In her time she had tried a lot of stuff that people probably wouldn’t expect of her, she thought. Meditation. Yoga. Self-hypnotism. Finally she had decided a beer worked just as well and her insides were as serene as they were going to get. She was what she was. If anyone didn’t like it, screw ‘em.
Usually, on a Friday night, she and Brick would hit a couple of bars, do some dancing, drink a few beers. Brick was a fine dancer, which was surprising because he looked like someone who would rather die than get on a dance floor, kind of a cross between a truck driver and a biker. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but he sure had some moves.
She had thought about going out without him, but the idea wasn’t very exciting. With all the hoopla this week about that damn List, she was a little tired. She wanted to settle down with a book and rest. Maybe tomorrow night she’d go out.
She missed Brick. She missed his presence, anyway, if not him in particular. When he wasn’t in the sack or on a dance floor, he was pretty boring. He slept; he drank beer; he watched television. That was it. He wasn’t a great lover, either, but he sure was an eager one. He was never too tired and was always willing to try anything she wanted.
Still, Brick was just further proof she wasn’t any good at picking men. At least she wasn’t stupid enough any longer to marry them. Three times was enough, thank you. Jaine fretted because she’d been engaged three times, but at least she hadn’t actually married three times. Besides, Jaine just hadn’t met anyone yet who could hold his own with her. Maybe that cop …
Hell, probably not. Life had taught Marci that things seldom worked out just right. There was always a bump in the road, a glitch in the software.
It was after midnight when the doorbell rang. She placed a bookmark between the pages so she wouldn’t lose her place and got up from the couch where she had been sprawled. Who on earth could that be? It wouldn’t be Brick returning, because he had a key.
That reminded her: she needed to get her locks replaced. She was too cautious to simply get her key back and assume he hadn’t made a duplicate. So far he hadn’t displayed any thieving habits, but one never knew what a man might do when he was pissed at a woman.
Because she was cautious, she looked through the peephole. She frowned and stepped back to unlock the door and remove the chain. “Hey,” she said, opening the door. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” said Corin, and hit her in the head with the hammer he had been holding against his leg.
seventeen
On Monday, the elevator sign read: XEROX AND WURLITZER HAVE ANNOUNCED THEY WILL MERGE TO MARKET REPRODUCTIVE ORGANS.
Jaine was still chuckling when the elevator doors opened. She felt as if she were fizzing on the inside, a direct result of a weekend filled with Sam. She still hadn’t been filled with Sam, but she had started on the birth control pills that morning. Not that she had told him she was going to, of course. Frustration was driving her crazy, but anticipation was lighting up her whole world. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so alive, as if every cell in her body were awake and singing.
Derek Kellman stepped forward to exit the elevator as she was getting on. “Hi, Kellman,” she said cheerfully. “How’re things going?”
He turned bright red, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “Uh—okay,” he mumbled as he ducked his head and hurried off the elevator.
Jaine smilingly shook her head and punched the button for the third floor. She couldn’t imagine Kellman getting up enough nerve to grab Marci’s ass; she and everyone else in the building would have paid good money to have seen it.
As usual, she was the first one in the office; she liked getting a jump on Monday mornings, with all the payroll to handle. If she could just keep her mind on the job, she was off to a good start.
The List thing was dying down, maybe. Everyone who wanted an interview had one, except for People magazine. She hadn’t watched television that morning, so she had no idea what snippets of their Friday morning interview actually made it on air. Someone would be certain to tell her, though, and if she ever felt the urge to watch it, which wasn’t likely, at least one of the other three would have taped the program.
Funny how she didn’t much care. How could she worry about the List with Sam occupying so much of her time and thoughts? He was maddening, but he was funny and sexy and she wanted him.
After eating dinner together Friday night, he had awakened her at six-thirty Saturday morning by spraying her bedroom window with the water hose, then inviting her out to help him wash his truck. Figuring she owed him, since he had washed the Viper, she quickly pulled on some clothes, put on some coffee, and joined him outside. He hadn’t wanted to just wash the truck; he wanted it waxed and buffed, all the chrome cleaned and polished, the interior vacuumed, all the windows washed. After two hours of intense labor, the truck had gleamed. He had then pulled it into his garage and asked what she was cooking him for breakfast.
They had spent the day together, arguing and laughing, watching a ball game on television, and were getting ready to go out for dinner when his beeper went off. He used her phone to call in, and before she knew it, he was out the door with a quick kiss and a “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
He was a cop, she reminded herself. As long as he remained a cop—and he seemed set on making a career of it, given his interview with the state police—his life would be a series of interruptions and urgent summons. Broken dates would come with the package. She had thought about it and decided what the hell, she was tough, she could handle it. But if he were in danger … she didn’t know if she could handle that nearly as well. Was he still working on that task force? Was it something he was permanently assigned to, or were things like that temporary? She knew so little about law enforcement, but she would definitely be finding out more.
He had returned Sunday afternoon, tired, grumpy, and not inclined to talk about what he’d been doing. Instead of badgering him with questions, she let him nap in her big easy chair while she read, curled up on one of the two remaining cushions on the couch.
