Kitabı oku: «Crimson Rain»

1

Seattle, Washington

December 20, sixteen years later

She walked into the bedroom dressed in a gold satin gown so tight Paul could see every sinewy muscle as she moved toward him. Her hips swayed, and she touched the tip of a finger to her mouth, wetting it, then pushing it farther in, sucking on it as her eyes met his in a familiar promise. The fabric of the dress was so thin, so tight, it was little more than gold sweat outlining her breasts and the deep V between her thighs.

God, she looked good. How many hours a day did it take to stay in such great shape?

Momentarily he thought of Gina, his wife, and felt a pang of remorse. He remembered the way they had been together the first year of their marriage.

But that was more than twenty years ago, and no matter how hard they had tried to hold things together, no matter how they had honestly wanted it, nothing had been the same since that terrible Christmas when Angela…

As fast as the thought came, Paul turned it off. He had learned to do that—to compartmentalize and not dwell on the bad times. Instead he turned his attention to his groin, and the fact that he was growing hard. It was almost painful, the excitement his mistress, Lacey, could invoke in him by the merest look. It was a good pain, though, telling him he was still alive. Rational thought flew out the window as she reached the side of the bed and raised one long, slender leg, straddling him. Leaning down, she swept his cheeks with her waist-length blond hair, teasing and laughing softly as her full breasts nearly fell out of their satin shield.

Paul reached up and yanked the low-cut neckline apart, his arousal intensifying as he heard the buttons pop, the thin fabric rip. Lacey gave a soft laugh. He had bought her the gown so that he could do this, playing out a fantasy that Lacey enjoyed. He could never bring himself to actually hurt her, nor did she ask for that. This pretense at roughness had become part of their foreplay, one his mistress had suggested, and the lingerie was a one-time purchase he could well afford. She threw back her head, shaking her hair in buttery waves as her body began to move over his. Reaching for him with one hand, she slid him inside her while remaining upright and giving him access to her breasts. Rocking back and forth, she moaned.

The tightness in Paul’s throat grew as he grabbed her breasts firmly, the way she liked it. Squeezing her nipples until they were stiff, hard nubs he could fix his mouth around, he stroked the soft fullness of them, letting the feel of her overtake him until all coherent thought left his mind. Only a blank slate was left. A blank slate with nothing written on it—no unhappy past, no painful present, no pallid future.

When it was over, it was as if a job had been done, a commitment met, if only to himself. He had managed to hold the memories at bay.

Spent, Paul stared at the ceiling. For three months, holding the bad memories at bay had been Lacey Allison’s only job. He had rescued her from a string of temporary positions as an assistant to various Seattle CEOs and had put her up in this luxury apartment. For the past three months she had waited for him every evening, whether he was able to come here or not. Even during the day, when she went out to shop, she would take a cell phone with her so that he could reach her at any time. This, too, was her suggestion. She wanted to be with him every possible moment.

As for Paul, from the day he’d made the decision to be with her—unthinkable up until then—he couldn’t get enough of her. He wanted to drink her down, make her a part of him that would never leave, never go.

He reached for her, and this time an aeon passed that he wouldn’t remember later. He had gone into another world, a world where nothing mattered, not even the sex. Lacey did that for him. She took him to that blank slate where, for a few moments, at least, nothing existed—not even Lacey herself.

Gina Bradley opened her front door and stood for a moment, listening for signs of movement. Shifting the bags of groceries in her arms, she shook her head and sighed. For heaven’s sake, who did she listen for?

Certainly not Paul. It was only five, and he had been coming home later and later these past few months. In the beginning, she would hold dinner for him, warming it in the oven at seven, eight, nine. In recent weeks she hadn’t bothered, taking a sandwich for herself up to their room and watching television or reading until he came home. Often it was after midnight when she would hear his car pull into the driveway. The Infiniti’s headlights would sweep the room quickly, leaving as faint an impression as Paul’s presence when at last he would tiptoe quietly into the bedroom with a mumbled apology.

His excuse, always, was that he’d been working late, and Gina had no reason not to believe it. Paul became moody and withdrawn every year before the Christmas holiday. Losing little Angela sixteen years ago had changed her husband in ways even she couldn’t comprehend.

Not that she herself didn’t still miss the child. But it was a long time ago, and Gina had tried to move on, to build a career she could exist inside, like a hermit crab. If her work as an interior designer didn’t always satisfy, she accepted that as natural, given the circumstances. Losing a child—even a child one had adopted and lived with for only four years—had left a hole in her heart. Not just a break, the kind country-western songs were written about, but an actual hole as seen in medical journals, the kind that led to death, or at the very least, drastic surgery.

For a while, Gina and Paul thought that, because of their grief, they might actually die. However, they had somehow pulled themselves together and had been saved—if saved was the right word—by the surgical removal of memories. Clean, antiseptic cuts were called for, as in the giving away of clothes and toys, the burning of photographs, the removal of everything that might remind them of Angela.

Everything, that is, but Rachel, her twin.

They had wished for identical twins at first, little girls they could dress in the same outfits, a cutesy look that would have people stopping in the street to coo over two-seater strollers and rhapsodize, “Oh, how precious.” They came to be grateful, however, that Rachel and Angela had been fraternal twins instead. The fact that they didn’t look alike helped after Angela was gone. And as Rachel grew, she took on more of Gina’s and Paul’s traits, so that eventually the reminders of Angela were diluted in that way, as well.

Except at Christmastime. If they lived to be a thousand, they would never be able to wipe away the memory of Angela in her new white dress with the wide scarlet sash, the knife in her hand as she stood over Rachel, a look of pure evil on her face. Then, as Paul and Gina had screamed in unison, there was that awful, unbelievable moment as Angela had thrust the knife down, slicing at Rachel’s tiny five-year-old chest, while tree lights twinkled and carols played.

As Paul had said later, it was as if the devil himself, not the Lord, had arrived that night. The devil in the form of a five-year-old girl, a girl they had raised in almost exactly the same way as her twin, whom they had adopted, too, thinking that keeping the girls together would be a blessing for all concerned.

That one of those girls would turn out to be a killer, they could not have foreseen. A “bad seed,” to coin a term. But one didn’t coin terms when one loved a child. One simply stood by in horror and disbelief as signs of evil began to show themselves, growing in intensity until that evil reached a crescendo on a holiday night that was supposed to be a warm, loving, family occasion.

It was all Gina and Paul could do to survive the shock—and then to remove all traces of Angela from their home.

Unpacking groceries, Gina wiped away tears. Often, when she allowed herself to remember Angela, tears sprang to her eyes and her collarbones ached from the emptiness in her heart. The last sight of that child as they turned her back over to the people at the orphanage was frozen in memory for all time.

That was the hell of it. Angela could be so sweet, so affectionate, convincing everyone who knew her that it wasn’t possible she could have done something so terrible. Then there would be an incident, like Rachel falling down the stairs, or rat poison from the garden shed ending up mysteriously in Rachel’s milk.

More than once, they’d had a scare like that with Rachel. And more than once, Angela had been nearby. They’d had no proof that she’d caused these “accidents” in any way, and Rachel herself said she had tripped over stuffed animals on the stairs. But the question remained, who had put those stuffed animals there, in a corner of the stairs that was so dark they were unlikely to be seen? And though it was hard to believe a five-year-old would think to take rat poison from a high shelf in a garden shed and put it in her sister’s milk, who had placed the step stool by that shelf and forgotten to put it back? Who, but someone short enough to need it?

On the other hand, to suspect Angela of such monstrous deeds was, at first, unthinkable.

It wasn’t until that terrible Christmas Eve that Gina and Paul were forced to admit they had a killer on their hands. That Rachel hadn’t died that night was a miracle. Paul had gotten to her in time, saving her from more than a shallow wound. It was enough, though, to convince them that Angela could never be trusted alone with her sister again.

They’d had to make a decision, and it was the most difficult one they’d ever faced. On the advice of Victoria Lessing, the psychiatrist they’d been consulting for months, they took Angela back to the orphanage.

Though on the surface it seemed cold to do that, Saint Sympatica’s was known for its private funding by wealthy patrons, and for having psychiatric care for its children. It was because of the high quality of care that it had been recommended to Gina and Paul when they first announced to friends their intention to adopt a child. The long flight to Minnesota to apply, then the following investigation and paperwork, were well worth it when they finally got to hold the twins in their arms.

Gina could remember the first time she realized that Angela was Paul’s favorite. They both did their best not to choose favorites, but there was some link, some bond between Paul and Angela that drew them together. Angela was outgoing and could make Paul laugh with her antics, while Rachel was timid and reserved, standing back and watching while her sister danced like a windup bear and made funny faces that stole the show.

This, of course, had the effect of making Gina show more attention to Rachel so that she wouldn’t feel left out. When Angela was old enough to notice this, she became angry over Gina’s preference for her twin, as she perceived it. At first she threw tantrums, stamping her feet or kicking things. Around the age of four, however, she began to hit Rachel. When she blackened one of her sister’s eyes, Gina and Paul began consulting Victoria Lessing. Victoria at first told them that, though a black eye seemed a bit extreme, fighting amongst siblings was normal. Perhaps Angela hadn’t realized what the consequences of her actions would be? Now that she did, her love for her sister might temper her actions in the future.

The problem, as Gina saw it, was that Angela did not seem to have the usual twin’s love for her sister. There were times, in fact, when Gina was sure that Angela hated Rachel.

She tried to talk to Paul about this but, blinded by love, he couldn’t see it. Angela was too good at hiding her darker side when he was around, and consequently he would defend her hotly, arguing that she simply had a stronger, more assertive personality than Rachel. Paul felt this would serve her well in the future.

In all fairness, not even Gina could have foreseen the kind of terror that future would bring.

The phone rang, and Gina came back to the present with a start. Rolling her eyes, she sighed, sensing who was on the other end of that ring.

“Hi, Mom,” she said, picking up the kitchen phone.

“How’d you know it was me?” Roberta Evans asked. “Oh, you’ve got that caller ID now, right?”

“Right, Mom,” Gina lied. It was easier than explaining that she’d developed a sixth sense for trouble. “What’s up?”

“Rachel’s coming home tomorrow, isn’t she? I forgot when her plane comes in.”

“Five-oh-five in the afternoon, Mom. You want to come with us?”

“Sea-Tac at that hour, the week before Christmas?” Her mother’s tone was one of exaggerated horror. “I’d rather wrestle a polar bear! How come you didn’t make it at a better time?”

Gina could hear the puff-puff of her mother’s cigarette, and saw in her mind the dyed red hair, the dark-lined lips. She loved her mother like crazy, even with all her eccentricities. Truth be told, she loved the eccentricities too—even more than she let on.

“That was the only flight we could get her on, Mom. She’s having tests at school today.”

“Well, that’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of! Tests, with Christmas only five days away? What are they trying to do to young people these days?”

“It’s something special, Mom. The term ended officially on the fourteenth, but she had to take some test for a special class.”

Gina sighed and changed the subject, taking a box of cereal from a bag and putting it in the cupboard. “We’re taking her to dinner on the way home,” she said. “We probably won’t get back here till late.”

“You keep saying ‘we,’” her mother commented blandly. “Does this mean Paul will be with you?”

“Of course. We always pick Rachel up together, you know that.”

“On the contrary, I don’t know a thing about Paul these days. Seems to me he’s never home when I call you at night.”

“Well, maybe you don’t call on the right nights,” Gina said, defending her husband out of habit.

“He’s not there now, I’ll bet.”

“No, but—”

“And he wasn’t home last night when I called, either.”

Gina took down a heavy cut-crystal tumbler and pulled a spicy Chardonnay from the fridge, pouring it to the tumbler’s halfway mark, then shrugging and filling it clear to the rim. What the hell.

“Mother,” she said patiently, taking a sip, “you know Paul always works late during the holidays. It’s his way of coping.”

“Well, it may be none of my business, but if you ask me, it’s not his only way of coping.”

Gina frowned. “You’re right, Mother. It’s none of your business.”

“Don’t Mother me, Gina Evans Bradley. He wouldn’t be the first man to stray.”

“No, but as I’ve told you before, Paul isn’t the type.”

“Ha! All men are the type.”

This was not a discussion Gina wanted to have. But to simply let it go would only add more fuel to her mother’s fire.

“Paul is too tired these days,” she said quietly, “to have an affair. He’s worn-out, Mom. I’m worried about him.”

“Are you saying he’s worn-out when he’s with you? You don’t have sex anymore?”

Setting the tumbler of wine on the counter with a thud, Gina snapped, “Mom, that’s enough! I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Because if he is, that might very well prove my point, you know.”

Gina clicked the flash button on the phone. “Mom, there’s another call coming in. It could be Rachel. I’ll talk to you in the morning, okay?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! You can just stop clicking that thing. I know there’s not a call coming in.”

“Bye, Mom.” Gina smiled as she hung up the phone. Her mother was still sharp at sixty, and at times almost psychic.

About Paul, however, she was completely off base. Paul would never have an affair. Gina knew him too well, and the one thing she knew for certain was that he simply wasn’t the type.

Paul watched Lacey as he dressed, who lay on the bed and followed his every move, a mock lewd grin turning up the corners of her mouth. Her lips were swollen now from lovemaking, and with her bright red lipstick rubbed off, she looked like a little girl—an innocent child, though he knew she was neither a child nor innocent, but a woman who knew things that other women never even thought about.

Pulling his pants on, he shoved in the tail of the white dress shirt he’d worn to Soleil Antiques that day. His hands fumbled. He was depleted from their lovemaking, and she was beginning to get to him again. Lacey played with a nipple, her eyes smoldering. Incredibly, she was ready for more.

Paul was tempted, but he had to get home. Gina could never know what he was doing; it would hurt her to the core, and he didn’t want that. Keeping a mistress was something entirely apart from his marriage to Gina. It was like—well, like living two different lives, each of them necessary and valid but for entirely different reasons.

Lacey sat up and reached for him. He dodged her, laughing.

“Enough! What are you trying to do, put me in cardiac arrest?”

She slid from under the satin sheets and pulled bikini briefs over legs so long, they seemed two-thirds of her height. Bending over, she let her full breasts hang as she placed them in a more comfortable position inside her bra. Paul’s mouth went dry.

“Cardiac arrest?” Lacey chuckled, straightening. “Not you! You’re a bear. A big, strong bear.” Then, squinting, she studied him through the most beautiful green eyes he had ever seen. “No…you’re too tall and thin to be a bear. More like a handsome black panther. An aging panther, of course, with that gray hair popping out along your temples—”