Читать книгу Behind Closed Doors - Tara Quinn Taylor - Страница 12

D ouble suction cups. What did they look like? How expensive were they? Where did you get them?

Laura stirred beside him and Harry smoothed a hand over her head, hoping she’d settle back into sleep. She’d finally given in and taken one of the sleeping pills the counselor at the hospital had recommended and the doctor had prescribed.

That had happened, after a difficult phone call to her parents. Harry cringed even now, reliving the moment Laura had told her mother she’d been raped.

From several feet away, he’d heard Sharon Clark’s Oh, my God, oh, my God coming over the line.

His in-laws had tried to insist on coming over, disregarding Laura’s pleas that she was too tired. Only when Harry had spoken to Len had the man seen that there’d be no benefit to Laura from another replay of the tragedy. The Clarks had relented when Harry and Laura accepted their invitation to dine with them after church the next afternoon.

Harry was dreading it.

More suited to Laura’s frame of mind would be dinner at their favorite neighborhood restaurant with Jim and Elaine, friends of theirs from college.

Harry’s hand stilled on his wife’s head as he considered telling their friends what had happened.

Was it necessary?

Better for Laura to have everyone know? Or to be able to regain her footing in the life she’d lived before Thursday night, without all the questions and concern?

The joint counseling session the hospital had scheduled for the following Tuesday couldn’t come too soon as far as Harry was concerned. He had far more questions than answers—about everything.

She lay inert, a twenty-six-year-old college graduate with boyishly short black hair and a body that she’d given away years before.

“God, that’s good,” David Jefferson said, his face inches from hers as he pumped his penis inside her. A penis she refused to look at—as though, if she didn’t see it, she could maintain some kind of distance. “So good.” His words were getting more breathless and she waited, knowing it was only a matter of seconds before he gave that final grunt and emptied his seed into her belly, intending to impregnate her.

Only seconds before his naked body would slide off hers and she could turn over and go to sleep.

To dream about her little boy, her son, the heart of her heart. The child she hadn’t seen in a year. He was three now, and as David slid in and out of her, she tried to picture that little face, to remind herself that while she owed David Jefferson her life, owed him this, she existed for an entirely different purpose.

One day soon she’d have her son back.

“Have you told Kelly?” Sharon Clark asked her daughter as they put the finishing touches on the vegetable salad they’d be having with their roast for dinner.

“No.” Laura took the dressings out of the refrigerator. Thousand Island for her folks. Honey mustard for her. Italian for Harry.

She was doing better today. Or maybe she was just more relaxed because she was with her parents, in the home where she’d grown up. The home where she’d been innocent and at peace.

“Isn’t she going to wonder why you haven’t been at work?”

Sharon had yet to look at her without obvious concern in her eyes, as though, if she just looked hard enough, she’d see the marks those men had left on her daughter’s soul.

“Harry told them I wasn’t feeling well. That’s enough.”

“But you and Kelly are so close…”

“I know, Mom.” Laura wasn’t sure she was making the right choices, only that she was doing what she had to. She was living her life solely on that level right now. She was protecting herself from the past—and the future.

Miller had done his research well. Two companies had installed windows within a five-mile radius of the Kendall home in the past two weeks. All the installers except one had an alibi for the previous Thursday night.

The remaining one was female.

Daniel felt the tension building within him, starting at his neck and traveling in both directions. If there wasn’t a break in this case soon, he’d be popping pills for a migraine—and sleeping flat on the floor in an attempt to ease the soreness in his back.

Staring at a list of suction-cup suppliers, preparing to get a warrant for all records of sales in Tucson over the past six months, Daniel heard his cell phone ring. He unclipped it from his hip.

“Boyd.”

“I did some reading last night,” Harry Kendall said after introducing himself. “I’m pretty certain that as far as the smaller guy goes, we’re dealing with a power-reassurance rapist. Enough of the profile fits. Non-violent attack in the middle of the night. Breaking into the victim’s home. No weapon. Lack of athleticism.”

Taking the phone away from his ear only long enough to switch sides, Boyd remembered how it felt to be powerless.

“It’s the other one I can’t place, and he was the one in charge,” Harry was saying. “My best guess is the power-assertive rapist. He definitely fit the athletic, macho image and was physically aggressive without being overtly sadistic.

“Neither of them appeared to feel any animosity toward Laura. The first one treated her more like a…machine. And the other acted as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with her.”

Daniel murmured something noncommittal. He and Miller had already been through the profiles—various FBI standard descriptions of rapists that were used not only by law enforcement agencies throughout the country, but also by university psychology classes, women’s self-defense programs and so on.

Apparently by victims’ husbands, as well.

They’d been through them and more or less dismissed them. The profiles described single rapists—not teams.

“It’s eleven o’clock on Monday morning, Mr. Kendall. Have you been to bed yet?”

“Yes. I’m getting in four or so hours, from dawn until about nine.”

“Is your wife there with you?”

“No.” The man didn’t seem at all pleased by that. “She insisted on going to work, so I did, too.”

“You’re at the university?”

“In my office, yes. I’m teaching summer sessions.”

“Do you have any classes today?”

“Three. I specialize in American history, which is the most popular history elective, so I tend to have a full schedule. I just finished class. I’ve got two more this afternoon but I can cancel them if you need me.”

Tapping a pencil against the edge of his desk, Boyd stared at the list of stores for which he had to prepare paperwork to subpoena suction cup sales records. He sighed, considering the hours he’d have to spend pouring over those records.

“What I need, Mr. Kendall, is for you to take care of your wife and let me do my job.”

The silence was almost painful.

“Look, I know what you’re going through,” he said, stepping away from his desk to the deserted hallway beyond. “I understand the rage, the feeling of being emasculated, the need to take back the power that was stolen for you—to prove to your wife and yourself that you’re man enough….”

He paused, giving Kendall a chance to deny any of the assertions.

And when he didn’t, Daniel said, “I also know that for me to say that you did everything you could, that what happened is no reflection on you, won’t do any good at this point. But what I need you to understand is that I’m highly trained to find these guys. I’ve been at this a long time. If they’re out there, I will get them.”

Kendall still said nothing. Daniel took that as a good sign.

“Don’t let these guys take any more than they already have, Mr. Kendall,” he said slowly. “Don’t let them rob your wife of the man you used to be.”

Still nothing.

“Okay?”

“Yes.”

Daniel half smiled. “Okay.”

He’d said goodbye and his phone was halfway from his ear when he heard, “Wait.”

“Yes?”

“One more thing.”

“Sure. What?”

“Do you think we’re dealing with a power-reassurance here?”

Daniel shook his head. The man wasn’t letting this go, wouldn’t stop tormenting himself.

“I just need to know that much,” Kendall said. “I need to know what I’m dealing with. In case they come back.”

“They aren’t coming back.”

“Please.”

“Yes,” Daniel heard himself say, regretting the answer even as he gave it. “One of them fits the power-reassurance profile.” He was only distorting an emotionally upset man’s equilibrium that much more.

Because if Kendall had done his research, as Daniel was sure he had, he’d realize that the power-reassurance rapist was—sometimes—known to repeat on the same victim.

On Tuesday, Laura was late getting home from work. She’d been harvesting pads of a variety of prickly pear that she and Kelly had spent the past six months cultivating for an experimental diabetes treatment. Harry was standing in the driveway as she pulled in.

Her stomach dropped. “What’s wrong?”

Following her into the garage, he opened her truck door, his expression intent. “Just worried about you.”

“Oh.” Laura reached up to touch his cheek. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called.”

She’d been preoccupied with getting out to her truck while there was still someone to walk with her, locking herself in and spending every second she was stopped at every light watching, ready to gun the gas if anyone approached her vehicle.

“I was testing for levels of Opuntia Streptacantha sap, but had to wait until midafternoon to harvest because of the acid levels in the pads….”

Nodding, grinning, the lines on his face smoothing, Harry pulled her out of her little Ford Ranger and into his arms.

“I love you, sweetie.” His words were muffled against her neck.

Only a few days ago Laura would have fallen naturally into Harry’s embrace; now she had to force herself to lean against him. And couldn’t stay there long.

Releasing her immediately, Harry didn’t seem to notice.

She wasn’t afforded the same luxury. For the rest of the evening, Laura struggled with unwelcome thoughts—bizarre notions about Harry’s hands being dirty. About his touch being abhorrent.

Feeling trapped.

Fighting the need to run away and the fear of facing reality.

And making herself sick with guilt.

Someone was out back.

“Get in the other room,” Harry commanded, jumping up from his seat at the table Wednesday evening.

Hearing her leave, Harry flattened himself against the wall next to the sliding glass door so he could see out without being seen.

“Harry? What is it?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t know how many there were. Or how close one of them might be.

So far, he couldn’t see anything other than the pool, deck chairs, grill and bougainvillea growing up the privacy wall enclosing the yard.

There. He saw it again. Leaves moving along the back wall.

Was that how they’d gotten in the last time? From the neighbor’s yard behind them?

What if the rape had only been their first warning? What if someone was out to get Laura away from him, to make them an example for other couples who might be considering mixed race marriages? To make a statement like those the Ku Klux Klan had been making for decades?

Hooded extremists attacking homes in the dark of night.

“Harry?” Laura came out.

“Get back!” He hadn’t meant to shout, but he’d do it again if he had to. “Call 911.”

He heard her pick up the phone in the living room.

And quietly unlocked the door leading from the kitchen to the garage. He could lock it from the outside—and gain access to the backyard from a side door.

He needed a weapon. Didn’t have time to get the gun.

Grabbing a screwdriver from his workbench, Harry moved quickly, stealthily, toward the garage access door. Thank God he’d oiled the damn thing a couple of weeks before. He made it out to the yard with almost no sound.

Perusing around the corner of the house, he could see the entire expanse of the backyard. At first glance, he couldn’t see anyone. Had he scared them off?

Harry hoped not. He was going to get these bastards, and if they were lucky, hold them until the cops arrived.

He’d like to annihilate them.

There! It came again. The rustle in the leaves. Someone was in the bushes at the back of the yard.

Crossing quickly to the wall, Harry crept along the bushes until he was only a few yards away.

And then he saw the shoes. One pair. Tennis. Male. Not quite as big as Harry’s ten and a half.

The smaller guy, then.

Searching the rest of the wall, he determined, to the best of his ability that the intruder was alone.

Spying?

Planning the next invasion?

Harry thought, very briefly, of waiting for the cops. But what if the guy decided to leave before they showed up? What if he knew Harry was standing there? Maybe the intruder planned to jump him….

Harry lunged. Ignoring last week’s injuries, he hurled himself under the bush like a baseball player sliding into home base. He grabbed the man around the ankles and yanked, pulling him off-balance.

“What the—”

Dragging the body out by the feet, he dove on top of it, planning to hold the man down until the cops arrived.

He had one of them.

And because of that they’d damn well catch the other.

“Get off me!”

It took Harry a full thirty seconds to realize that the voice was female, and so was the body beneath his.

Careful to hold on to the intruder’s wrists, he rolled off her.

“Who are you?”

“Maggie Boucher. I live on the other side of the wall. I moved in a couple of weeks ago.”

The woman was about his age with short brown hair and a plain face that showed quite clearly the myriad emotions she was feeling, from consternation and concern to a healthy dose of fear.

Harry wanted to believe her. But…

“What were doing sliding around behind my bushes?” he asked as she sat up, her wrists still in his grasp.

“I was trying to coax my cat to come home,” she said, holding out a slab of fish. “He’s declawed and it’s not safe for him to be outside. He followed me out with the trash and got scared and took off over here.”

As the woman spoke, a light-colored, long-haired funny-faced feline came slinking out from behind the bushes, gaze intent on the piece of fish in his owner’s hand.

It had grown completely dark, but he could see the woman’s face in the light shining from his patio. Laura must have turned the light on.

Which probably meant she was watching them.

“Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?” he asked, sitting on the grass in the slacks he’d worn to work.

“No, thanks,” Maggie said, cat in her arms as she stood. “I…need to take a shower.” She looked down at the stains and scrapes she’d sustained at his hands.

“I’m really sorry. Let me at least see you home.”

“That’s all right. I’m not afraid. I take a walk around the neighborhood every evening. I’m sorry I trespassed.”

For the first time in his life, a woman appeared to be afraid of him. Harry felt dirty.

And helpless to do anything to change what he was becoming. Because if he had the evening to do over again, he’d make exactly the same choices.

This time, it had been Maggie. The week before it hadn’t. Tomorrow it might not be.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he said now, as the woman started across his backyard to the gate she wouldn’t be able to open. He’d put a dead bolt on it over the weekend.

“What?”

“Walk alone at night.”

She hugged her cat. “I’ve been doing it for years.”

“My wife was raped last week,” Harry blurted, as though that explained everything. His actions. His words. His warning.

Maggie stopped in her tracks, eyes wide, mouth open.

“In this neighborhood?”

“In our house.” He was scaring her. But that was good. Necessary. If a little fear could prevent what Laura had suffered…

“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.” Horror had replaced the disbelief. Maggie looked up, focusing on something over Harry’s shoulder, and he saw Laura standing on the inside of the sliding glass door.

He waved. Smiled. She waved back, eyeing the woman with the cat.

“Please let me walk you around the block to your house,” Harry said. “We’ll just have to wait until the police get here, so we can explain that this was a false alarm.”

With one last glance at Laura, the woman nodded.

On Thursday night, Harry’s foot touched Laura’s leg in bed—waking her instantly. Heart pumping, Laura tried to go back to sleep before full consciousness took hold. And counted her heartbeats instead, her nerves like shards of glass beneath her skin.

Slowly, gently, she moved over to the edge of the bed. Harry hadn’t been sleeping much and she didn’t want to wake him. He didn’t have to get up for an hour and a half.

But she couldn’t lie there being touched, either.

Tonight made it a week since it had happened.

Hugging the side of the guest bed, she kept still, eyes wide open, and stared at the carpet, looking for comfort.

There was none to be found. Not in the carpet that she’d chosen after weeks of studying books filled with options. Not in her mother’s voice.

Or her husband’s touch.

“Why aren’t you getting pregnant?”

Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the bedroom ceiling, hardly recognizing the short dark hair that was once long and amber, she slid her hand down to cover David’s groin.

“You said you thought it was the stress.” In truth, it was the two abortions she’d had in the twelve months she’d been living with this man. Those were the only two times she’d left the apartment without his approval or knowledge. Free clinics were easy to find near college campuses and the staff asked no questions. David’s lust for her, combined with her proven ability to give birth, was keeping her alive. Birthing another child for the brotherhood would kill her.