Kill Me Again

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.

“It won’t do any good to think about that,” Olivia said. “It didn’t happen that way. He’s okay, and he knows what he did was wrong. That’s what matters. Besides, he saved the man’s life. Bryan said so.”

“That’s no excuse.” Carrie lowered her head, sighed. “Karl says you have a two-car garage with only one car in it. So will you do it? Take his SUV and keep it at your place for two weeks?”

Olivia shrugged. “Sure, why not? I have room.”

“Are you sure? It’s huge. A Ford Ex-something.”

“It’s fine. My garage is pretty big and nicely free of clutter. My SUV’s a Ford, too. Escape Hybrid. How much bigger can it be?”

“Great. It’s in the parking lot nearest the E.R. Red with black—the paint job jumps right out at you. Hard to miss.”

“I’ll take it home now and leave mine here overnight. I can get it tomorrow morning.”

“Better leave your keys here, then. If it looks like it’s in danger of being towed, I’ll move it for you, and I’ll leave those instructions for the night shift, as well.”

“Thanks. It’s white, by the way.”

“Well, of course it is.”

Olivia paused in the middle of handing her own keys to Carrie, about to ask just what that comment was supposed to mean, before thinking better of it. She was boring. Okay, everyone knew it. That was exactly how she wanted to be.

Carrie hung the keys on a peg beside the nurses’ desk. “So what do you think about him?” she asked. “Do you think he’s that writer?”

Bringing his face to mind, Olivia said, “I don’t see how he could be anyone else.” She looked at Carrie, bit her lip, then blurted out the question on her mind. “Is it just me, or is he gorgeous?”

“Oh, he’s gorgeous, all right,” Carrie told her.

“I thought so. Just didn’t trust myself.”

“Why not? You’re that big a fan?”

“I’ve admired him so much for so long that…I don’t know, I was afraid my brain might have interpreted him as gorgeous no matter what he looked like. Though I’ll admit, I half expected a balding bookworm with Coke-bottle glasses and a pretentious goatee, or maybe a guru in white robes with a shaved head and a vow of celibacy or something.”

“I guess I need to read some of his books,” Carrie said. “But I think I’m happy for you. You got something far better than a guru or a goatee.”

Olivia glanced up at her friend. “I didn’t get anything.”

“Come on. He’s got amnesia. You’re his lifeline. And he thinks you’re hot. I can tell.”

“He thinks you’re hot, unless he’s blind,” Olivia said. And he has it all over Karl Mallory, she added silently.

“Yeah, well, he didn’t look at me the way he looked at you, I’ll tell you that much.”

“We’re cold, divvying up the poor guy like a leftover steak.” Olivia made a face. “That’s not like me. I don’t usually even like men.”

“You’ll learn to like this one, I’ll bet—if he stays in town long enough,” Carrie said.

Olivia elbowed her lightly in the ribs and smiled, but the smile died quickly. “Carrie, how is he? Really?”

“I think he’s fine. His head hurts. And head injuries can be sneaky. But so far, I don’t see any sign there’s going to be a problem.”

“But you want to keep him overnight anyway.”

“If his brain swells, he’ll be in trouble. It’s best he stays right here, just overnight. If there’s no swelling, he can go home tomorrow. Which is just as well, since we don’t even know where home is today.”

“I guess so.”

“So are you heading home now yourself?”

“Not yet. I told him I’d come back to say good-night before I left. Thought I’d run over to the vending machines and get him some junk food first.”

Carrie stared at her for a moment, her head tipped to one side.

“What?”

“I don’t know, you’re…kind of perkier than usual, aren’t you?”

“I am not.” Olivia waved a hand dismissively and went to the vending machines, then headed back to Aaron’s room with some chips, some cookies and a couple of cans of root beer.

He lifted his head when she came in, and his eyes warmed a little. She dumped her booty onto his tray table and said, “I figured this would get you through the night.”

The smile in his eyes reached his lips then. “How do you know I even like junk food?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Gotta be better than hospital food,” she said. “Besides, how do you know you don’t?”

“Oh, I think I do. My mouth is watering at the sight of it.”

“So your mouth doesn’t have amnesia?”

“Apparently not.” He tore open a bag of chips, ate one and held the bag out to her.

She took a chip and munched. Then she licked the salt from her lips and fingertips, and said, “You seem like a nice guy, Aaron. And you write beautiful, touching stories for a living. I just can’t imagine anyone having any reason to want you dead. Can you?”

He averted his eyes, and the motion felt like an obvious sign of deception, but Olivia told herself that was just her overcautious mind reading into things. She knew she often saw suspicious motives in ordinary behavior. It came from being in hiding for so long, she supposed. Using a name that wasn’t her own. Living a life that felt as frail and temporary as the puffy seeds of a dandelion. One stiff breeze and it could all blow away.

“I just wish I could remember more about my past,” he said. “I must have really pissed someone off.”

“More about your past? Then you’ve remembered some of it already?” she asked, eager to hear more.

“No, not really.”

It was a lie. It not only felt like a lie, but it also looked and sounded like one, too. He had remembered something.

Okay, now she was being ridiculous, she told herself. What reason would he have to lie to her? He didn’t even know her.

She shook her head slowly. “Most victims of violent crimes don’t jump straight to the conclusion that it was somehow their own fault. Or if they do, they shouldn’t. It could be something else. Mistaken identity, a jealous competitor—”

“Yeah. I hear the East Coast writers and the West Coast writers have a real grudge fest going on.”

“I’m not sure I would joke about this, Aaron. Someone really did try to kill you, after all, and that means there has to be a reason.”

He frowned as he studied her. “You seem to be pretty familiar with my…career. Have I been accused of anything in the press? Any violent episodes touted in the tabloids or something like that?”

She lowered her head and told herself to try to state the facts without sounding like a gushing fan. “I think if you knew who you really are right now, you wouldn’t ask those sorts of things.”

“And you know who I really am, is that what you’re saying?” he asked.

She let her eyes sweep over him, head on the pillow, toes sticking out from beneath the white covers. “I don’t know if I do or not. I know the man I think you are, based on the stories you tell. I’d like to think that man is for real.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me. Who am I?”

She took a breath, choosing her words with care. She wasn’t going to heap praise on him or pretend a relationship that didn’t exist. She didn’t see herself as a sappy fan, and she didn’t want him to see her that way, either. “I like to think any writer puts something of themselves into their stories. Your protagonist, Harvey Trudeau, is the main character in every one of your novels, and it seems to me his personality is probably the best chance we have of unraveling yours. I could be entirely wrong, but that’s my theory.”

“Understood. So you’re going to tell me about Harvey, and then time will tell whether the same things apply to his humble creator.”

“Exactly.”

“All right. So tell me about Harvey.”

She shifted her eyes in thought, and then her gaze turned inward as she recalled the character she’d grown to love. “Harvey is a gentle human being. He’s sensitive. He sees beauty in everything around him. There’s not a violent bone in his body. He’s sweet, and kind, and emotionally deep. He’s also very in touch with who he is.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Far from it. Harvey’s got his flaws. He doesn’t trust people easily, and they usually prove him right. But he misses out on a lot of good relationships because he paints everyone with the same brush. His logic is that it’s better to be alone than to risk being hurt and disappointed by trusting someone not worth trusting. I understand that about him.”

His intense eyes seemed to sharpen at those words. But he didn’t interrupt.

“So as a result, I think…I think you’re lonely.”

“I’m lonely? Don’t you mean that Harvey’s lonely?”

“I think I mean both.”

“And what makes you think that, Olivia?”

She thought that, she mused, because she was lonely, too, and for the very same reasons. She recognized it in him. Had done, even before she’d met him, just by reading his books. She had felt it coming through the pages. But she couldn’t very well say so. “I guess it’s because Harvey always ends up alone at the end of every book.”

He nodded slowly. “What if I’m nothing like my books?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I suppose that’s possible, but it just doesn’t seem very likely. How could you write the way you do if you didn’t feel it on some level?” Then she made herself stop, deciding it might be best if she left now, before she made a starstruck fool out of herself. “I should probably go. I’m starting to sound like a gushing fan, and I’m not that. If you need anything, call me, okay?”

He lifted his brows. “You said that before, but honestly, you’ve done enough already.”

“No. I’m the one who agreed to take care of you while you were in town. And I intend to keep my promise, even though we have to cancel the fundraiser.”

His lips thinned. “I’m really sorry about that.”

“You were shot,” she reminded him. “My card’s on the nightstand. Call me if you need me. I mean it. And I’ll be back in the morning.” She got up and moved toward the door, then turned back once more. “Are you going to stay the night here?”

He looked at her a little strangely, but he nodded. “I’m going to try. If I start to feel too antsy, though, I’m going to trust my gut and check myself out.”

She didn’t want to leave him—it felt like abandoning a lost boy, somehow. But he wasn’t a boy, and it would go beyond the bounds of their very brief acquaintance for her to stay. She forced herself to turn and walk out the door.

The house was dark when Olivia arrived home. The Expedition’s headlights illuminated the front entrance, probably burning through a layer of paint while they were at it. The thing was huge, and beyond macho. It screamed big, rugged, sporty, manly man, and it was the polar opposite of what she would have expected a bookish little man like Professor Mallory to own. She guessed you never could tell about people. She would need to move some things before putting the SUV in the garage, she realized. It would have to be okay outside for now.

The overbright headlights lit up the front steps with their wrought-iron railing. She’d rushed out in such a hurry that she hadn’t bothered to turn on an outdoor light. No matter, she wasn’t too worried with Freddy around.

She shut off the engine, which had a deep growl to it that she was unused to, and took the shopping bags she’d procured on the way home from the passenger seat, then slid out of the SUV to the pavement below, landing with a jarring thud. Then she ambled up the walk while fumbling in her bag for the house keys and thinking she ought to consider trading up. The thing had tons of room for Freddy in the back, and it was fun to drive.

After a successful search, she stuck the key in the lock and, with the ease of long practice, stepped inside, flipping the light switch as she went.

“Freddy!” she called. “I’m home!”

He didn’t answer. And that was not like him.

“Freddy?” She walked through the house, checking every room. It wasn’t that big a place, so searching it was neither difficult nor time-consuming. The dining room and kitchen were one large, open room, separated only by a countertop, with French doors on the far side leading to the deck and fenced-in backyard.

She headed in that direction when there was no response from inside the house, turning on lights as she went along. She hated being in the dark. And she especially hated being alone in the dark. It was just too creepy.

There was a very large doggy door—she’d had to have one custom-made to accommodate Freddy’s bulk—just to the side of the French doors. But it was very unlike him not to hear a car pulling in, and come bounding from wherever he might be to see who was at the door, much less come at her call. Something about this was off. And something about the house felt off, too.

An icy chill danced up her spine and along the back of her neck. She shivered, and quickly unlocked and opened the French doors, eager to be with her dog, and feeling the earliest warning signs of impending panic. If anything ever happened to him…

“Freddy!” she shouted as she stepped out onto the redwood deck. “Freddy, come!”

She used her most commanding tone, but even to her own ears, there was a hint of fear wrapped within it. And then, quickly, fear was overshadowed by relief. Freddy came bounding toward her, appearing out of the darkness like a ghost from the very farthest part of the back lawn. His brindle markings made him all but invisible in the dark. But there he was, running toward her and chomping away on whatever was dangling from his jowls.

“What in the world? Freddy, what have you got? Give it to me. Give it to me, come on.” She tried to wrestle the wet thing—a piece of meat, she realized—from his jaws, but he got a better grip and then swallowed it whole.

“Freddy! Was that a steak? Where on earth could you have gotten a steak?”

Freddy belched loudly, then jumped as if startled by the sound, and looked around him to locate the source of it.

“Where did you get that?” Olivia demanded. “Where, huh?”

Freddy sat, his tail thumping the wood.

“I swear, Freddy. You didn’t kill something, did you?” It would be alien to him to harm anything, she thought. When he spotted wildlife, he wanted to play with it, not eat it. He was a gentle giant. Besides, it really had looked like a good cut of meat to her, not a mangled woodland creature.

This was just bizarre. She stepped back inside and reached for the little wine rack, where she kept a large flashlight, just because it fit so nicely there. Then she went back outside and across the deck, the flashlight’s beam guiding her way. She’d turned on the outside lights now, and they helped, too, as she walked from the deck to the lawn, and then followed the fence all the way around the backyard. She didn’t see anything. No meat lying around, and no sign that any small animals had been devoured.

Freddy circumnavigated the lawn right by her side, but he didn’t give away a thing.

“Well, go figure, pal. Apparently you have yet another fan,” she told him. She wasn’t all that surprised. Freddy was something of a local celebrity. Everyone who met him loved him, and well-meaning neighbors sometimes left him treats, despite Olivia’s softly spoken objections. Crouching, she set the light aside and took his face in her hands. “Don’t you ever take candy from strangers, Frederick. Do you understand me?”

“Woof!” said Fred, and then he turned and galloped back toward the house, as if daring her to race him, his long ears flapping in the breeze.

Olivia declined the challenge and walked back more slowly. She took one more look around, but by then she was feeling a little sheepish about her case of nerves. Okay, a lot had happened today. A man had been shot. But that didn’t mean that her own ghosts were going to come floating out of the distant past tonight. No one had tried to kill her. And Aaron’s situation had nothing whatsoever to do with her own.

She locked the house up tight, took a quick shower and went to bed. But sleep didn’t come easily. She kept thinking about Aaron, and how different he was from what she had expected. And she kept wondering if he was lying awake, frustrated and alone.

It wasn’t like her to spend so much time thinking about any man. But she couldn’t seem to help herself where he was concerned.

She’d spent most of her adult life in hiding from the violent man she’d narrowly escaped so many years ago. She’d avoided romantic relationships ever since. But she had allowed herself, in her weaker moments, an imaginary one in her mind, because it was harmless and next to impossible. Aaron Westhaven wasn’t real to her. He was an ideal. He stood for the antithesis of violence. He was tender, sensitive, affectionate, wonderful. She knew he couldn’t be as perfect a human being in real life as he had become in her own mind. But it hadn’t mattered, because there had never been a chance she would meet him in real life anyway. And she had imagined that, if she did, he would be a huge disappointment.

But now she had met him. And he was far from disappointing. Something inside her seemed to have broken loose and started all kinds of silly chemical reactions. He wasn’t what she’d expected him to be, personality-wise. But physically, he was far, far more. He was one of the most incredibly handsome men she’d ever set eyes on.

What if he wasn’t too good to be real? What if he turned out to be all the things she had allowed herself to imagine he was? What then?

She sat up in the bed, scowling hard and wondering just who the hell had taken over her brain. Professor Olivia Dupree was not a giggling sorority girl with a crush. And besides, no matter what the psychiatrists and anthropologists said, she firmly believed that human beings were not designed to fall in love. Romantic love was a made-up idea with no real basis. It was what people wished they could feel. But it wasn’t real. She knew that. And Aaron knew it, too, depicted it powerfully and repeatedly in his novels. That was why she connected so strongly with his work. So what was wrong with her now?