Secrets 02 - Kill Me Again Read online

  He looked her up and down slowly. No. She really wasn't the type.

  "So if I'm famous and I agreed to come to town to speak, why didn't anyone know who I was?"

  "Your terms were explicit and a little extreme," she said, averting her eyes. "We were only allowed to advertise a secret special guest speaker and had to promise not to tell anyone it was you. We had to make the event by invitation only, and we were told to invite only the top one hundred most generous contributors among our alumni. No more. So there's been no press announcement or publicity around this at all. With it being limited to invited guests only, advertising wasn't necessary."

  He was watching her, and it occurred to him that he was looking for signs she was lying and not finding any. And that was an odd thing to catch himself doing, wasn't it? As if he was accustomed to being lied to, as if he knew what it looked like. "So I'm famous enough to get away with those kinds of bullshit demands?"

  She shrugged. "The university agreed to all of it."

  "So that's a yes, then."

  "I sent you my business card, with my unlisted number and home address handwritten on the back," she said, pulling the card from her pocket and handing it to him.

  "So you have my home address?" he asked quickly, a gusher of hope rising in his chest.

  "No, I sent it to the P.O. box. That was the only return address on your reply to me. Sorry."

  He felt the disappointment but tried not to let it show by focusing on the card she'd handed him, turning it over as he checked it out. "Did they find any prints on it?"

  "How did you know that was fingerprint dust?"

  He shrugged, handing the card back to her. "Isn't it?"

  "Well, yes, but I didn't know that. Neither did Dr. Overton."

  "The redhead?"

  "Yes, the redhead," she said.

  She sounded a little exasperated with him, and he found that mildly amusing. She was so staid and tucked in, he found he enjoyed ruffling her a little bit.

  But she was staring at him, awaiting an answer. He sighed. "I don't know how I knew. I don't know anything. Remember?"

  She nodded, taking the card from him and setting it on the table beside his bed. Then she snatched a few tissues from the box there and used them to wipe the black smudges from her fingertips.

  "So you're sure that's the card you sent me."

  "I certainly haven't sent anyone else that information," she replied.

  That caught his attention, because it was such an adamant reply. As if it were ludicrous to think she might have given her personal info to anyone else.

  Maybe it was. There was more to this woman than had been apparent at first, he thought.

  She seemed to try to pull her focus back to the matter at hand. "To get back to the subject, Mr. Westhaven was due to arrive today."

  "Arrive where?" he asked.

  "My house. He--you--were going to use my guest room. But he never arrived. And my card, the one I sent to him, was on you when the boys found you."

  "Along with the pocket watch and key ring they found on me, it's the sum total of my worldly possessions at the moment."

  "Still, that's why it's fairly obvious that you're him."

  He nodded. "If I am him, I still say I sound like a pompous prima donna. Making you people jump through all those hoops just to get me to visit for an afternoon."

  She shrugged, but her puzzled frown was genuine, he thought. "It seems clear that you have reasons to guard your privacy. Big reasons. Reasons that go way beyond just being a prima donna, Aaron."

  It was odd, being called by a name that didn't feel like his own. It felt odder still, that her point sounded right on target.

  "Most people who've heard of it probably think your reclusiveness is about privacy or shyness, or that it's just a publicity stunt, a big-time author being eccentric and arrogant and getting away with it."

  She'd given this a lot of thought, he mused. She'd probably been justifying this ink-Nazi's egomania ever since she'd decided to worship him from afar. "Uh-huh. And what do you think?"

  She shrugged. "The first time you stuck your head out in the open, someone tried to blow it off. I'd say you knew that could happen, and that's why you play the recluse. To keep yourself alive."

  He nodded slowly. "You know, I think you just might have a point there. Now, would you do me a favor and grab my clothes from the closet?" As he spoke, he shoved his covers back.

  She frowned at him. "Why? What are you going to do?"

  "Leave."

  She got up again. "You can't just leave," she said.

  "No, what I can't do is just stay here. Hand me my stuff, will you?"

  She nodded, the motion jerky, and turned to open the closet. She pulled out a suit and held it out, looking it over. "Too bad," she said.

  "What?" He was reaching for the hanger, but she shook her head and put it back in the closet. "It's an Armani, but it's completely ruined. Blood, dirt. There's no saving it." Then she bent down. "Shoes look all right, though."

  He let his head hit the pillow and sighed. "I can't stay here. It's not defensible."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, someone just tried to take me out. I was shot in the back of the head, all my ID was taken and my body was dumped in the middle of nowhere. That was a hit. A professional hit."

  She stood very still for a long moment, and he watched her absorb that piece of information. Her only reaction was to close her eyes slowly, leave them that way for a few ticks and then open them just as slowly. "Some professional," she said, moving again to close the closet door. "Seeing as you're still alive."

  "Yeah, clearly he wasn't Einstein, but a steel plate in the skull isn't something most people would even think of. Still, even an amateur would know enough to verify the kill." He smiled grimly.

  "That was a mistake, but he won't make another." He looked at her, saw her looking at him as if for the first time. "What?" he asked. "Are you not getting it? The minute this guy figures out I'm in the hospital, he'll be coming by to finish the job."

  "I thought of that already."

  She had? He went stone silent.

  "I asked Bryan--Officer Kendall--to try to keep this out of the press for now, and he agreed it was for the best. No word of a gunshot victim being found and taken to the hospital will appear in the local newspapers. I guarantee it. The hospital staff are cooperating, too."

  He blinked at her, surprised she would have come up with that strategy on her own. "Thank you for that," he said.

  She nodded. "You're welcome."

  "Even so," he continued, "it won't stay a secret for long. People talk. The boys will say something. Wives will tell their husbands. Husbands will tell their best pals. Those best pals will tell their wives, and so on."

  "It'll only have to hold for a day or two," she said. The odd way she'd been looking at him before--like a wary doe eyeing an armed hunter--had faded. "Bryan's going to contact your publisher to see if someone there can identify you, or if they know of someone who can. From there, we should be able to find out where you live, who your relatives are, all the things you must be so eager to learn. As frustrating as I know this must be, it won't take long to fill in the gaps. In the meantime, there's no reason to let the killer know he didn't succeed."

  Did she know how much better she was making him feel? he wondered. To think he would have all the answers in a day or two...

  "But...the shooter probably expects to see something in the papers about a body being found. That would be big news in a town this size, wouldn't it?"

  She frowned at him. "How did you know Shadow Falls was a small town, not a city?"

  He stopped short and wondered about that. "I don't know. Bits of conversations pinned together, combined with the view outside my window, I guess."

  "Or because it's something you knew before, and the knowledge is still there, in your memory, right where you left it. I think it's a good sign, Aaron."

  He felt his worry lighten just a little. "I hope you're right."

  She nodded. "I'm sure I am. But to answer your question, you were found along a back road that leads through a state forest. It's dirt, not pavement, not even gravel. Just dirt, and hardly ever traveled. It's near one of the spots where the high school kids go to party and underage couples go to have sex, when they aren't out at the old abandoned Campbell farm or the vacant cheese factory. It's perfectly believable that a body dumped out there might not be found for a few days."

  He frowned and looked her up and down yet again, taking in her pencil skirt, silky blouse and tightly wound hair. "You say you're an English teacher?"

  "Why do you ask it like that?"

  "Because you think like a cop. Or a criminal."

  She looked away so quickly that he knew she had something to hide. Some deep, dark secrets of her own. And all of a sudden he was almost as curious about her past as he was about his own hidden history.

  There was something fascinating about Professor Olivia Dupree, but the shadows in her eyes told him it wouldn't be easy finding out what it was. He didn't really believe she was a criminal, much less in league with a hit man. But there was definitely something hiding behind those intelligent brown eyes.

  She met his curious gaze and stared right back. The tension, the attraction--oh, yeah, the feelings were there, and they were real--built. Finally, she looked away. "There's a policeman guarding your room," she told him. "That should reassure you."

  "Yeah, I just love cops," he said, and he made his words as sarcastic as possible. "But having one outside the door is only going to make the gossip mill grind a little faster, isn't it?"

  She nodded and licked her lips, the motion of her tongue, quick and slight though it was, grabbing him by the testosterone and not letting go.


  "I'll phone Bryan," she said. "I can ask him to send a plainclothes officer instead. You're right, the uniform raises too many questions."

  "A plainclothes cop will be just as obvious."

  "To you and me, maybe. But not to anyone else." She moved closer to the bed, leaned over him just a little, and her face softened. "You really do need to spend the night, Aaron. Dr. Overton wants to be sure she hasn't missed anything, and you know how tricky head injuries can be. Your brain could swell later on and you could be dead--" she snapped her fingers "--just like that."

  "Did you just come in, or did you somehow miss that I already could have been dead--" he snapped his fingers "--just like that? I don't like being in this hospital. I'm a sitting duck here."

  "I don't think you have a choice."

  "You don't know me very well, then."

  She thinned her lips, looked at him steadily. "I think it would be a bad idea for you to leave, but you're an adult. You do what you want. I'm going to leave that card here." She bent over it, picked up the nearby pen and scribbled something. "I put Bryan's numbers on it, too. But I'm closer--only fifteen minutes away. If you need anything, feel free to call me, okay?"

  "You're going, then?" He almost tried to snatch the words back and wondered if he could have managed to sound any more like a disappointed four-year-old.

  Her chocolate eyes melted. "I'm going out to talk to Dr. Overton. But I'll come in and say goodbye before I leave."

  "No need. You've told me all you know."

  She moved close to the bed again, and for a second he thought she was going to touch him, put a hand on his shoulder or brow or some sappy thing like that. And while he didn't think he would mind her putting her hands on him in the right circumstances, he definitely didn't want it like that.

  She didn't, though. She said, "Aaron, your work has seen me through some...difficult times. It's probably been more important to me than you can imagine. And if I can return the favor by helping you now, then that's what I want to do. So if you need anything, call me. Okay?"

  He frowned at her, finding this whole thing very strange. She was a fan. He had a fan. Images from the film of Stephen King's Misery ran through his mind, along with a surge of frustration that he could recall old movies but not a damn thing about his old life.

  Still, he replied, "Okay," and let it go. He didn't want to need this woman's help. He wanted to think that all he really needed was his past.

  "Okay," she said. "It was a real thrill meeting you, Aaron."

  He nodded. "Wish I could say the same. But I don't feel like I have--met me yet, that is."

  She sighed. "You're talented, gifted even. Special. You really are."

  Hearing that from her made him feel kind of queasy inside, and then suddenly he was sucked into his own head, into what he thought must be his own past.

  He saw himself, and thought he would have recognized his own body even if he hadn't spent several long minutes staring into a mirror when he'd first awakened.

  He was standing on a sidewalk in the dark, in the pouring rain. Streetlights gleamed on slick pavement. He stood motionless; then, slowly, he raised his arm and looked down its length to the black handgun resting easily in his hand. The laser sight shot through the murky gloom and appeared as a tiny red spot on the chest of the man who stood farther along the broken sidewalk, laughing and talking to the person walking beside him.

  He felt himself take a breath, release half of it, and squeeze the trigger. He heard the soft pffft of the silencer, felt the 9 millimeter buck in his hand. And then he saw the man--his victim--jerk stiffly, crumple to his knees and topple facefirst onto the sidewalk.

  The victim's companion looked down for a moment, then glanced up and said, "He never saw it coming. You're a freakin' artist, Mr. Adams. An artist. You know that?"

  "Yeah," he heard himself mutter. "I'm something, all right."

  He blinked away the memory and was back in the hospital bed, looking at the woman who'd paused near the door to glance back at him.

  "Are you all right?" she asked.

  He gave his head a shake. "Yeah. Fine. Sorry, I'm tired. I guess I zoned out a little."

  "You've had a rough day. Get some rest."

  "Yeah. I will, thanks."

  She smiled at him, a gentle, reassuring smile, and then she walked out of the room. Aaron stared at the ceiling and wondered what that vision had been about. He hoped to God it wasn't a memory and was scared to death that it had been. He didn't think he was a reclusive novelist anymore--if he'd ever believed it. He didn't think that was even close to what he did.

  3

  "It wasn't my car," Carrie Overton said softly.

  Olivia had left Aaron, though she'd done so reluctantly. He certainly wasn't what she'd expected. But she was captivated--and eager to spend more time with him, even while rather disgusted with herself for feeling that way.

  She was torn. He was a hero to her. Yet he was still a man. She didn't know what she'd expected him to be. Some kind of genderless word wizard, a spiritual, asexual guru, she supposed.

  But he was one hundred percent male in every way that she'd been able to detect. So how did she reconcile the author she'd so admired, and the purity of the bond she'd felt with him through his work, with the gorgeous, sexy man in the hospital bed? The type who would normally send her running in the opposite direction.

  She didn't know. And there were a hundred other things on her mind at the moment, things far beyond her questions about Aaron and who would want to kill him, and why he knew about fingerprint dust and hit men and defensible positions. She was also thinking about having to cancel tomorrow's fundraising event, telling the main office to refund money for the one hundred spots they'd sold, and the length of time she'd left Freddy home alone. Even though he had a doggy door and a fenced-in backyard, he didn't like being by himself for extended periods. She actually came home between classes to spend time with him most days.

  So Carrie's statement wasn't translating in Olivia's brain just then. "What?"

  Carrie held up a set of keys. "The car that my brilliant son and his best friend, Kyle Einstein Becker, decided to take out joyriding today--the car they were driving when they found our John Doe in there--it's not mine."

  Olivia's eyes widened. "Are you saying they stole a car? Sam stole a car? Come on, Carrie, Sam wouldn't steal a Tic Tac."

  Carrie nodded and jangled the keys. "I need you to take it, so he doesn't do this again."

  "Excuse me?" Olivia was baffled. "How can I take a stolen car?"

  Carrie shoved the keys into Olivia's palm. "Sorry. I'm not explaining this very well. I feel guilty as hell for not being honest with the police, but I don't want Sammy ending up arrested for grand theft auto."

  "What's going on? Whose car is it? Do they know it's missing? Are they pressing charges?"

  "Not exactly." Carrie lowered her head, and her long red curls curtained her face. "Long story short, okay? I'm dating Karl Mallory."

  "Professor Mallory--head of the math department? I had no idea he was dating again." Olivia thought Karl Mallory was a milquetoast dishrag without much of a spine or a hint of a personality, and that a beautiful, intelligent, successful woman like Carrie could do far better. "Seriously? Since when?"

  Carrie nodded. "Two dates. It's very casual. But still--he's in Europe for the summer, and he left his gorgeous, prize-winning showpiece of an SUV in my garage until he gets back. That's the vehicle my son took out today."

  "Oh," Olivia said. "Bryan didn't mention that."

  "That's because I didn't tell him. I did phone Karl. Told him what happened. He was upset, but willing to forgive and forget, thank God. I just want to move the thing elsewhere, anywhere, just to get it out of Sam's reach until Karl gets back in two weeks and can take it home."

  "Mmm-hmm."

  "He said I should ask you."

  Olivia lifted her brows. She and Karl Mallory weren't close, but they were friendly enough. "I really don't think Sam would do it again, Carrie. Do you?"

  "No. But his friends...that's another matter. Aside from his girlfriend, Sadie--that girl is a gem, I swear to God--the rest of the kids he hangs out with, I wouldn't trust as far as I could throw them. And they can be pretty persuasive--and you know about peer pressure." She closed her eyes. "I keep getting these nightmare images of what could have happened if they'd gotten there earlier--while the killer was still there, I mean." She said the final words in a whisper, even though they were alone at the nurses' desk for the moment.