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Dangerous Attraction 2 : Love and Suspense 30 : DEATHSCAPE
The fox behind the hundred-year-old Pennsylvania farmhouse inched forward in the withered grass as it stalked the meadow vole. Gray winter clouds rolled above, forcing their way across the sky, large brutes that had been twisted into violent shapes by the winds of the troposphere. The fox paid little mind to the weather, its eyes on its prize.At the other end of the farmyard loomed a dilapidated barn, filled with the scent of moldy hay and rotting wood—the sweet scent of decay. A man crouched in the shadows of the hayloft, looking out through a gap in the boards to watch the fox.Some hunters stalked their prey; others baited their trap, then lay in wait for the ambush. He preferred the challenge of setting up the right trap, drawing his victim to him. He liked to think his way, since it required more finesse, was the nobler way.Anyone could follow a guy into a dark alley and shoot him in the back. But a quick death was not what he had in mind for today. Detective Sullivan had dogge
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the empty road, and the barren, snow-covered fields that lined it on either side. She blinked hard a couple of times, then stepped back inside, suddenly cut off at the knees. No feeling in the universe compared to that of a mother watching her child being taken away.She turned the old-fashioned brass key in the lock. She used to love its warm patina, the way it perfectly complemented the deep color of the hundred-year-old oak door. Braided wool rugs covered most of the wide-paneled floor that matched the door. The narrow stained-glass window above the door painted the walls with color and light in the foyer.When they’d first moved in, she’d spent hours walking around the house, drinking in the colors and textures, the play of light and shadow, absorbing the visual feast through her skin. Maddie and she had giddily sketched every interesting nook, their way of taking possession of their new home.For a moment, she could clearly remember that deep sense of contentment, the pure joy. T
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Ashley picked up the brush again and lifted it to the canvas, except now the colors seemed all wrong. The light had changed too. She looked through the row of oversized windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, taking up the whole north end of the loft. Moody snow clouds had drifted in, casting a fatigued gray tint on everything.Her hand jerked, leaving an angry slash in the middle of the canvas. A headache drummed to life in the back of her skull.It’s not going to happen today.She ignored the shiver that skipped down her spine.This is a normal day. I’m painting a normal composition.But it was too late. It was happening already. She squeezed her eyes shut against the images flooding her brain, but no resistance would help now. She couldn’t escape.This time, the body—a man, midthirties—lay in a shallow grave surrounded by low brush. A distinct rock loomed nearby, blocking the view of a creek beyond.The image stirred faint memories that refused to come into focus. Her headach
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Jack Sullivan stared at the bright light at the end of the tunnel. He looked straight into the damn light, walked toward it, and was so glad to be rid of the pain, he couldn’t have cared less that he was dying.Time stood like seawater trapped in a tidal pool, disconnected and unmoving.But after a while, he realized he wasn’t alone in the void.Shannon?No, not his sister. But someone definitely there. And the fact that he wasn’t alone brought him some peace.Until he was yanked back—by the cold and the pain and his unfinished business—and realized that he wasn’t dead yet after all, but close to it. He couldn’t lift his hands. He tried to blink and got an eyeful of dirt.Something heavy sat on his chest, on his whole body. Seconds passed before he understood that he’d been packed into some cold, tight space—then another second before he realized he was buried.If there’d been anything in his clenched stomach, he might have thrown up and choked himself to death. As it was, he only hea
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A naked, possibly dead man lay in her foyer. Now what?Ashley peeked from the kitchen, shivering against the cold that poured in the open front door. When she’d rushed off to save him, she hadn’t thought this far ahead, what she would do once she found him. She hadn’t thought he would attack her.Maybe she hadn’t been supposed to save him. Maybe he was the same kind of man as whoever had put him into that shallow grave, one criminal taking out another, eliminating competition.She held on to the broom she’d grabbed as the first possible weapon she could think of and inched toward him. When she reached close enough, she poked him in the side. He didn’t move.Whoever he was, he was well built, had seen either plenty of physical labor or regular exercise. He had a well-proportioned body she might have been tempted to paint another time and place, under different circumstances. He hardly looked ready to be painted just now.His face was swollen and bloody, like the rest of him. An arrange
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Jack Sullivan saw the bright light again. This time, he wasn’t about to march blindly ahead. Screw the light. With superhuman effort, he willed himself awake. His eyelids going up felt as if someone was dragging sandpaper over his eyeballs. It hurt to breathe.“Welcome back, Jack.” Bing’s face swam into focus.“Captain.” He cleared his throat, then tried for something better than the weak whisper. “What happened?”“Do you know how much paperwork I have to fill out every time one of my men gets injured?”He blinked at the hospital room around him—white walls, green sheets, strange-looking medical equipment—and wrinkled his nose at the smell of iodine. “I’ll try not to make a habit of it. I’m fine.”“You might think differently when the painkillers wear off,” the man said ina voice that leaned toward gentle. Not something Jack had heard from Bing before. He had to be dying.He tried to sit up. Couldn’t. What the hell? “Take it easy, son.”Nobody had called him son in at least a decade.
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Mrs. Smutzky. Couple of cars I didn’t recognize. I was paying attention to the people I was ticketing.” He rubbed his hand over his knee. “We canvassed the area as soon as you were found. Nobody reported seeing any strange cars pulled over in the hours before you were discovered.”Jack nodded while he gritted his teeth against the new wave of pain that washed over his body. Whatever drugs they’d given him were wearing off. Good. He wanted to be able to think clearly. He wanted to remember.“Is someone watching the Price woman?”“Forget her,” Bing snapped. “She had nothing to do with this.” I’ll be the judge of that.He had a lead after all these years, a living, breathing, tangible link to Blackwell. He held on to that thought with everything he had. She might have fooled Bing, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to fool him.“Let it go. That’s an order.”He looked his captain in the eyes, preparing for a shit storm as he said, “Shannon Sullivan, the third victim, was my sister.”A long
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That Jack Sullivan still lived filled him with fury. He’d been careless. He wouldn’t be careless with the detective again.His art was more important than a handful of lives. Art at the level where he practiced it had to be protected.He was living his dream at last, living to his full potential, and nobody was going to take that away from him. He’d always wanted to be an artist.His father hadn’t approved, had refused to pay for art school. And the art school hadn’t given him a scholarship, unable to understand his art. He’d accepted then that they couldn’t have taught him anything anyway.In hindsight, the rejection had been lucky. Anyone could be trained to a fair level of competence in anything, but creative genius was born. Structured instruction would have imposed restrictions on his vision.The old fan chugged on in its valiant effort to distribute the heat from the antique woodstove in the corner. He didn’t really feel the cold. Creating always filled him with fire.He manipul
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