Mean Streak(19)

He was sitting perfectly still, watching her intently. “No other immediate family?”

“No. Just me. We were well known in Baton Rouge. I couldn’t go anywhere without running into someone who wanted to talk about Mom and Dad and extend condolences. The reminders got hard to take. It seemed that my survival depended on leaving, starting fresh somewhere else. So, after finishing my residency, I sold the family home, my shares in the company, and relocated. New city. New state.” She slapped her thighs, ran her palms up and down them. “There you have it. Did I leave out anything?”

“How you met your husband.”

“A mutual friend set us up.”

“Love at first sight?”

She came to her feet. “All you need to know about Jeff is how frantically worried he is right now.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Three years plus a few months.”

“Have they been happy years?”

“Yes.”

“Does your scalp hurt?”

“What?” Then, realizing she’d been rubbing the wound, she lowered her hand. “No. The bump has gone down. The cut itches.”

“Means it’s healing.”

“It means I need to wash my hair.”

“Why don’t you use the shower?”

“Why do you think?”

“Because you don’t want to get naked.”

His definitive answer didn’t call for elaboration.

He gave one last turn of the screwdriver, then set the toaster upright in the center of the table and tested the ejection lever several times. It was no longer sticking. He got up and carried it to the counter, replacing it in its spot. He returned the screwdriver to a drawer.

“What about you?” she asked.

“I don’t mind being naked.”

“That’s not what I was talking about.”

He braced his hands on the counter behind him and crossed his ankles with more languor than she would have thought a man his size could achieve. He looked supremely at ease with himself and his surroundings, with the bizarre situation, with everything that was driving her mad, especially the mystery that was him.

“Then what were you talking about, Doc?”

“Family. Do you have a wife stashed somewhere?”

Last night his expression had practically dared her to pry. His hard gaze had warned her to proceed at her own risk. He was looking at her that same way now. “No.”

“Ever?”

“No bride. No wife. Not ever.” He let several seconds lapse, then said, “Anything else?”

Yes. A hundred things, but she shook her head.

“Then excuse me, please.” He walked past her and went into the bathroom.

The conversation had left her feeling more disturbed than ever. She had bared her soul about the tragic death of her parents and its effect on her, a topic she was usually reticent about because it was so painful.

He had continued to dodge questions that could have been easily answered with one or two words. Instead, he was keeping her in the dark, and it was a shadowy unknown that made her uneasy.

Feeling chilled again, she wandered over to the fireplace. The logs recently added had burned quickly. She moved aside the fire screen, took one of the smaller logs from the box, and carefully placed it on top of those aflame, then reached for another. As she pulled it out, others shifted, revealing something at the bottom of the box.

It was a brown paper bag, larger than a lunch sack, but not as large as a grocery bag. Curious, she worked it out from beneath the logs, which took an effort because it was heavy.

To keep the sack closed, several folds had been made in the top of it. She unrolled them and opened it.

Inside was a rock, eight inches in diameter at its widest point, with jagged points that formed a miniature mountain range across the top of it. Those peaks were stained dark red with blood. It had run into the network of minuscule crevasses like a macabre lava flow. Stuck in the dried blood were several strands of hair, exactly the length and color of hers.

She gave a sharp cry of realization just as hands, which she had noticed specifically for their size and strength, caught her upper arms from behind, spun her around, and yanked the sack away from her.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”





Chapter 8



FBI Special Agent Jack Connell climbed the steps of the brownstone, checked the box at the door, and pressed the button beside the name Gaskin. She was expecting him and answered almost immediately. “Mr. Connell?”

“Here.”

She buzzed him in. He opened the main door and stepped into a small vestibule, then went through another door with etched-glass panels set in heavy, carved wood. She had warned him that the building hadn’t been modernized to include an elevator, but fortunately her apartment was on the second floor.

He rounded the elaborately carved newel post at the landing. Eleanor Gaskin was standing in an open door, through which she extended him her right hand. “You haven’t changed.”

“Can’t say the same for you.”

She laughed with good nature and patted her distended tummy. “Well, there is that.”

Now in her early thirties, she was striking, with widely set brown eyes and straight black hair worn almost in 1920s flapper style. She had on black leggings, ballet flats, and an oversized shirt to accommodate her pregnancy. There was no artifice in her smile. After shaking hands, she moved aside and motioned him in.