Dancing in the Dark Page 28

Sara shrank back, afraid that he was going to hit her again, but instead he began to pace, his eyes filled with an anger that reached out from the past.

  “He was nobody. A hustler with a voice. But all she saw was Sinatra. And just like that he was between her legs. Telling her a kid was nothing but a liability. The bastard.” He spat the curse out, his eyes narrowing to slits. “She left me for him. Just like that, she was gone.” He sank down on the bed, rocking back and forth, following the beat of the music, more a little boy than a man.

  “I waited for her. I knew she'd be back. She'd never desert me. Not for someone like that.” He frowned, determination setting his chin, memories driving his expression. “And it paid off. The son of a bitch ran out on her, and she came crawling home. Wanting me again.”

  He stood up, walked over to the bureau and opened a box, pulling out a knife. It glittered in his hand, and he caressed it with a finger, turning back to smile at her. “Only me.”

  Sara tugged against the ropes that bound her, oblivious to the pain as she struggled to free herself. He was insane. She could see it in his eyes. And he thought she was his mother. Her left hand twisted against the rope, almost slipping free.

  Ryan moved with unexpected speed, the knife now held firmly against her throat. She froze, not doubting for a moment that he'd use it. “I warned you about struggling.” The tip of the knife bit into her neck as he traced a line across it, and then bent to taste the trail of blood. “I'd hate to have to end this before it's even started.”

  She saw regret flash through his eyes, and felt the knife shift. Self-preservation kicked in. She didn't want to die. Not here. Not like this. “Weren't you angry with your mother? For leaving you, I mean?” The words came out on a rush of air, tumbling over each other. She fought to keep her breathing even, to keep herself calm, willing him to move the knife, to turn his anger back where it belonged.

  He lifted the blade, considering the question. “I loved her more. And I wanted her. A son belongs with his mother.” He looked to her for agreement, and Sara forced herself to nod.

  “We were happy after that. I was older, more capable of fulfilling her needs. Everything was perfect.” He ran the knife back and forth over his leg, as if in his mind he were sharpening it. “Then he came back. Bringing apologies and Sinatra. And she betrayed me again.” His hand stilled, and he lifted the blade, staring into it as if it were a mirror.

  “So I killed him. I thought it would please her. Prove my love. But she called me a fool, said I was only a boy.” Ryan gripped the knife, anger cresting again in his eyes. “After all I'd done for her, she rejected me. Me.”

  He slammed the knife into the dresser, the sound spitting through the room, a counterpoint to Sinatra's crooning. Pivoting, he picked up an album, sliding out the ebony disk. “You know what I did, Sara?” His smile was twisted, his eyes wild. “I broke the record.” With a snap the album splintered, pieces flying across the room. He held up a jagged piece. “I used this to rape her, to prove once and for all that I was a man. Her man.” He pulled the knife from the dresser, dropping the record shard.

  “And then you know what I did?” His voice was almost singsong now, as if he'd recited the story many times to himself, his tone almost gleeful. “I slit her throat and watched her die.”

  “Your mother?” Sara's words came unbidden, as if they had a life of their own, her horror mixing with mind-numbing fear.

  Ryan nodded. “So I cut them into pieces and left them for the bayou fish to eat.” He tilted his head, watching her, his gaze assessing, his mood shifting like lightning. “I thought I'd put it all behind me, Sara. Made a new life for myself. A respectable life. But then you came along.”

  He moved toward her, eyes wild, the knife still clutched in his hand, and Sara screamed, the sound harsh in the sudden stillness of the room.

  “There's the house.” Tony pointed at the shadowy building under the canopy of trees and it was all Eric could do to keep from jumping from the moving car, the burning question whether the man was in residence.

  And, more important, whether Sara was with him.

  “Stop here. No sense in advertising our arrival.” Faint light shone through what appeared to be blinds on the windows. Eric's heart pounded, every nerve ending on high alert.

  Tony killed the engine, letting the car glide to a halt. Eric wrenched the door open, intent on heading for the house.

  “Wait.” Tony was out of the car, too, opening the trunk. “Kevlar.”

  Eric frowned with impatience, but returned to his partner, taking the vest and slipping it on. Tony followed suit, and then motioned Eric to follow him. Using the trees for cover, they moved toward the house, passing a car, the same make and model as Ryan's. Tony stopped long enough to feel the hood mouthing the word “warm.”

  Nodding his understanding, Eric drew his gun and moved cautiously toward the house, alternating with Tony as he moved forward, taking turns watching each other's backs.

  The building was more a shack than anything else. Square and ugly, it squatted on a rocky outcrop, surrounded on three sides by live oaks and on the fourth by the dark, murky water of the lake. Its walls were weather-beaten, the roof sagging inward as if it were too tired to remain upright.

  Not exactly high-stakes real estate.

  Most of the house was dark, light spilling only from the south side, adjacent to the lake. Signaling Tony to cover him, Eric ran forward, keeping low, up onto the ramshackle porch. In comparison to the rest of the house, the door was new. And locked. The dead bolt holding secure as he turned the knob.

  With enough time and the proper tools, he could probably jimmy the lock, but he had neither, so he moved back into the shadows, this time following Tony as they worked their way around to the lighted side of the house.

  There were two windows here, both boarded shut, the first glowing dimly, the second brighter, its light cascading onto the lawn, escaping through cracks between the boards. Fighting the urge to try to crash through them, Eric inched forward until he was under the first window.

  Popping up, he tried to peer through the boards with no success. Either the light was too dim, or the boards too close together. And to complicate things even more, the window had been boarded shut from the inside, adding a layer of glass to the mix.

  Smothering a curse, Eric bent again and edged toward the other window, Tony right behind him. This time Eric could hear movement inside, along with the wisp of a melody. His blood froze as he recognized the recording.

  Frank Sinatra.

  Holding his breath, he rose until his eyes were level with the windowsill, shifting until he could see through the crack.

  At first there was only color, green, orange, and pink, but then, as his eyes adjusted to the light, he could make out Ryan pacing back and forth in front of what looked like a bookcase, a knife big enough to gut a bear in his hand.

  Fighting to stay calm, he pivoted slightly, enough to see rope anchoring something to the end of the bed. Beyond that an open doorway led out into what appeared to be a hallway. Squinting, he rose slightly, using a different crack for a peephole. White Keds came into view. And ankles. Beautiful slim ankles that he'd recognize even in the dark.

  Ryan had Sara.

  Ducking back down, he returned to Tony, whispering his discovery. Together they retreated to a safe distance, Eric fighting the urge to batter the door down with his bare fists. “I've got to get in there.”

  “We ought to wait for backup,” Tony insisted. “They can't be too far behind us.”

  “Between the distance and coordinating with the county for jurisdiction, I bet they're still a half hour out, minimum. Ryan will kill her before then.”

  “You don't know that.” Tony folded his arms, digging in for a fight.

  “I don't not know it either, and I'm not taking chances with Sara's life.”

  Tony opened his mouth in rebuttal, but Eric cut him off with an angry wave of his hand. “I think I can get in through the other windo
w. The sash is rotten. It won't take much effort to break the lock and open it.”

  “There're still the boards to deal with.”

  “Nothing a tire iron won't take care of.”

  “And the noise?” Tony uncrossed his arms, a signal that he was weakening.

  “Between the music and Ryan's voice, I doubt he'll hear anything. Besides, you'll be standing watch, so you can signal me if something tips him off.” Eric blew out a breath, willing his friend to understand. “I can't just sit here, Tony. If we can get in there, Sara's got a chance. If not—” He spread his hands, the gesture underscoring his thoughts.

  “All right. We'll do it your way.” Tony was already moving back toward the car, returning minutes later, tire iron in hand. “You ready?”

  Eric took the tire iron, temporarily holstering his weapon. “Let's do it.”

  Years of teamwork stood in their stead, Tony moving soundlessly to watch through the window, Eric using the tire iron to pry the lock off the rotten window. It fell with a muffled thud, and Eric waited for Tony's thumbs-up before lifting the window to attack the boards nailed inside.

  They were surprisingly easy to pull off. Still, it seemed a painfully slow process, first loosening the board and then pulling it carefully through to the outside.

  Once or twice, at Tony's command, he stopped, waiting with pounding heart for Tony's okay. But finally the space was big enough for him to crawl through.

  This was it. Now or never. Sara's life was in his hands.

  He'd spent his whole life trying to protect the world from scum, but it had never been personal. No matter the outcome, he'd been okay. Nightmares maybe, but nothing that was in any way personal.

  This mattered—at a soul-deep, can't-live-with-it-if-you're-wrong kind of level.

  He shot a look at Tony, wanting support, knowing he probably wouldn't get it. But he was wrong. His partner— his friend—was there by the window, offering a leg up.

  “She's the only thing that counts.” Tony's whisper was like a clarion call. Sounding truth, giving him strength.

  “All right. Then I'm there.” He boosted himself through the window, not worrying about the broken boards, the only thing that mattered finding Sara—keeping her alive.

  Chapter 31

  The knife plunged downward, and terror ripped through her. But no additional pain followed, the knife embedded in the pillow by her head, the sound of steel against feathers ratcheting through her as if it had been the real thing.

  “Why didn't you kill me?” The words were ripped out of her, born in horror and fear, cold sweat sending shudders rippling through her, relief tempered by the certain knowledge that he was toying with her.

  “I can't.” Ryan's words were equally tormented, and Sara twisted her head to look at him. He pulled the knife free, staring down at it as if is he'd never held one before.

  “Why?” she whispered, some part of her still needing to understand, needing to justify his tortured dementia.

  He looked up at her with eyes she recognized. The man she'd considered a friend. “Ryan?” The tears came, the aftereffect of fear and relief. There was nothing noble about terror. It leveled the field. An enemy no one could beat.

  “In the beginning, I only watched you, Sara. In the city, at work, sometimes even at home. I made a copy of your keys so I could come and go as I pleased. Day or night. I saw everything—your intimate best. But it wasn't enough.” He paused, his hand tightening on the knife. “I wanted to feel you, Sara. To show you how much I cared.” He slid the blade under her breasts, his eyes devouring her, his free hand tracing the crest of her nipple. “You're so like her,” he said, his voice broken. “I thought she'd come back to me.”

  “But I'm not your mother, Ryan. I'm not.” She begged him, trying to reach that part of him that had been her friend, wondering if there'd been signs, something she'd ignored or missed, something that would have hinted at the devil within, warned her off, kept her safe. “Please, let me go.”

  He shook his head. “It's gone too far. I thought I could keep you separate. Keep you safe. Until you were ready.” His eyes were full of regret. “But I can't. You're no better than she was—always choosing someone else.”

  “How could I have chosen you, Ryan? I was married. For God's sake, I had Charlie. He was a little boy,” she whispered, the words catching in her throat, her chest constricting in agony. She yanked at the ropes that bound her, wanting to hurt him, to punish the man who had killed her son. “He was my baby.”

  “He was in the way.” Ryan turned to face her, his face devoid of emotion.

  Hot tears rolled down her cheeks, her body shaking, the pain of her loss so intense it vanquished her fear. “I loved him.”

  “No, you loved the idea of him. The idea of family, Sara. That's what was important to you.”

  She shuddered, guilt racking through her. There was truth embedded in insanity. She had wanted a family. Wanted it with every part of her being. But that didn't change the fact that she'd loved them. “They were my life, Ryan.”

  “No. They weren't. You told me so, remember? All I did was clear the way for you.”

  The horror of his words settled inside her, wrapping around her like an insidious cancer. Tom and Charlie were dead because of something she'd said to a madman. She jerked her left arm forward, the ropes cutting deep, the pain only serving to drive her onward. She pulled harder, the muscles in her shoulder burning like fire.

  “Stop it,” he barked, the knife back at her throat. “I'll decide when it's time for you to die.” He'd found her breast again, the feel of his skin against hers making her gag, his touch repulsive. “We've come this far. There's no sense in rushing things.”

  “I'd rather be dead than with you.” She bit out the words, hating him with every fiber of her being.

  “You'll get your wish soon enough.” He twisted her nipple, the pain feeding her fear. She gritted her teeth, trying to stay focused, to find a way to fight. As if reading her mind, he smiled, the gesture devoid of humor. “It all would have been so different if you'd come to me, Sara.”

  “You mean my family would still be alive.” The thought ate at her, even though she recognized the fallacy of the logic. She was falling into his insanity, letting it cloud her thinking.

  “And all the others.” Ryan released her, reaching over to pull the tattered remains of her shirt across her breasts, the torn material not quite reaching.

  A new realization worked its way front and center, this one no less horrifying than the other. “You killed them because of me?”

  “I had no choice.” He aimlessly drew circles on the bed with the point of the knife, his eyes never leaving hers. “I'd waited so patiently and instead you threw yourself at Tom's fraternity brother.”

  “Phil?” Incredulity mixed with an overwhelming sense of dread. “What does he have to do with any of this?”

  “You threw yourself at him.” His hand tightened convulsively on the knife.

  “I went to dinner with him. He was Tom's friend. There was nothing between us.” She was trying to reason with a madman, insanity breeding insanity.

  “Liar,” he shrieked, hitting her with the hilt of the knife, leaving blood hot against her cheek. “I saw you looking at him. Laughing with him. You even brought him home with you.”

  “To talk.” She stressed the words, turning away from him, tears of pain and anger salty against her tongue.

  “Not to talk.” He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. “To fuck. You wanted to fuck him. Admit it, Sara.”

  She glared up at him, willing herself courage. This wasn't Ryan. This was the bastard that had hurt Molly. The man who'd killed innocent women. In her name.

  “I could have killed you then.” He lowered his head, his breath fetid against her lips, his fevered gaze boring into hers. “But I didn't.” His grip tightened, the skin of her face stretching until she thought it would pop. “I didn't.”

  “You killed them instead.” She
twisted to try to break free, but he moved with her, his fingers viselike on her chin, the knife now resting against her throat.

  “I told you I didn't have a choice. I love you, Sara.” Coming from him the words were an abomination. “And they were so like you. The mouth, the hands, the eyes.”

  “Oh, my God,” she shuddered, choking on her bile, thinking of Molly. “The mannequin isn't your mother, is it? The mannequin is me.”

  “You're so like her, Sara. Too much so.” He spit the last out in anger, his face changing yet again. “I wanted us to have a happy ending.”

  “Surely you knew that was impossible?”

  “Nothing is impossible.” He said the words, but his tone was bitter, as if he didn't really believe them. “You were my second chance. I couldn't let anything happen to you.” He shook his head, releasing her chin, the knife dipping lower, circling her breast. “But someone had to pay.”

  “That's why you called me.” She was beginning to follow his twisted logic, and the thought terrified her. “You wanted to prove to yourself that I was still alive. That it had all been a fantasy.”

  “I knew you'd understand.” His smile was empty. A caricature. His face a reflection of the demons that drove him. “It was easy enough in the beginning. Hookers are stupid people.” He dismissed them with a toss of his head, disgust coloring his expression.

  “You set Lydia up. Told her it was me who wanted to meet her.” Sara felt tears prick her eyes, surprised she had any left to shed.

  He shrugged. “It worked.”

  “And Allison?” She wasn't certain she wanted to know, but as long as he was talking, she was alive, and despite the pain, she wanted every precious minute.

  “Her hair was just the same color as yours.” He reached out to twirl a strand around his finger.

  Sara fought the urge to gag, and tried to twist away, but he jerked her back, using her hair to pin her in place. “She begged me for her life, Sara. I wonder if you'll beg me, too.”

  Sara shuddered, her imagination filling in the blanks, then closed her eyes, forcing herself to let go of the images, to focus on the present, as horrific as it might be. “You knew about Nate, didn't you? About his past. You were going to let him take the fall.”