DeathAngel by Linda Howard
But the money was sitting in her bank account, tempting her every day, and she knew she had to get rid of it before a weak moment caught her when the bitchy little inner voice was on a coffee break or something. She just wished that this one time, doing what she wanted to do and what was right had both happened to be the same thing.
Ah well. She still had her jewelry, and she hadn’t stolen it, so selling it and using that money shouldn’t be any problem. The amount wouldn’t be anywhere close to two million, but she’d still have a nest egg—unless the inner voice told her to repay what she’d used of the two million, in which case she was shit out of luck. Doing right definitely wasn’t easy.
A thunderstorm rolled overhead about five p.m.; that was usually a busy time at the truck stop, with people getting off work, but the heavy sheets of rain kept people in their cars, inching along the interstates and surface streets. Stopping might have been the better option, but no one wanted to get out and get soaked. Even the big rigs kept rolling past. The customers who were already in the truck stop stayed put, lingering over a last cup of coffee or deciding to have a slice of pie after all, but overall both the kitchen staff and waitresses had time to catch their collective breaths.
Business remained slow. Storm after storm marched across the city, and though they dodged the bullet regarding tornadoes, the thunderstorms were magnificent. Huge sheets of lightning flashed overhead, and straight-line winds blew trash like missiles across the parking lot. Andie had always kind of liked thunderstorms, so when she could she’d go to the windows and watch.
Around dark the storms eased and the rain lessened, and business picked up a little. Mother Nature wasn’t finished with the fireworks, though; the last line of storms marched through, providing a little more drama even though this one wasn’t nearly as intense as the earlier storms had been. One particularly brilliant and long-lasting flash of lightning lit the sky, and automatically Andie looked out the windows.
If the man had been walking toward the restaurant, she wouldn’t have paid any attention to him. But he wasn’t walking; he was just standing there as motionless as a rock, while the lightning flashed around him. She couldn’t make out any of his features, he was wearing a long rain slicker and was nothing but a dark shape, but the bottom dropped out of her stomach and her breath caught, and she knew. She had this reaction to one man, and one man only.
She forced herself to turn away from the window as if she hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. She wanted to run screaming, but letting herself panic was the last thing she needed to do; look what had happened before.
The way he was just standing there, staring inside, reminded her of how Cassie had described the man she’d seen last month. Had he been watching her even then? How long had he known where she was? At least a month, she was certain. So what was he waiting on? Why hadn’t he made his move?
She couldn’t begin to understand what he was doing. Maybe he was toying with her, like a cat with a mouse. Maybe he was playing some kind of game, waiting to see how long it took her to spot him. If she ran, it would trigger his pounce.
When the next bolt of lightning flashed she couldn’t stop herself from whirling to look out the window, but the dark figure was gone. No one stood outside watching her through the rain, almost daring lightning to strike him. She would almost have thought she was seeing things—almost, if not for the fact that Cassie had seen him, and if not for the way her nerves were twitching and her stomach flip-flopping.
She made herself finish her shift. She made herself take orders, refill cups and glasses, clean away the debris. While she did, she thought about what his appearance meant, and she faced some facts she’d been avoiding for the past eight months.
When her shift ended, she sought out Glenn, who worked longer hours than any of them. Good short-order cooks were hard to come by, and Glenn didn’t want to hire someone who was just adequate; he did too much business for that. If he couldn’t find two other cooks who met his exacting standards, then he worked doubles, without complaining.
“I need to talk to you,” she said as she pulled off her apron and tossed it in the laundry basket. “In private, if you can spare a minute.”
“Do I look like I can spare a minute?” he groused, his beefy face shiny with sweat. He cast an expert eye over the two order slips hanging from clothespins on a line in front of him. “These two won’t take but a minute, so cool your jets until then. Go wait in my office.”
She went into his office and sank down on one of the straight-backed chairs, sighing with relief as she got her weight off her feet. She stretched out her legs and bent her feet back toward her as far as they would go, feeling the pull in her Achilles tendons as they loosened. Then she rotated her ankles, and next her shoulders and neck. God, she was tired; tired of running, tired of looking over her shoulder, and there was only one way she’d ever be truly free.
Glenn came hustling into his office and closed the door. “Okay, what’s up?”
“I saw a man out in the parking lot tonight,” she said, jumping right into the middle of the subject. “He’s been stalking me for almost a year, and now he’s found me again. I have to leave.”
Glenn’s face went dark red. “Point him out to me, and I’ll make damn sure he never bothers you again,” he growled.
“You can’t protect me from him,” she said gently. “I don’t think even around-the-clock guards could stop him. The only thing I can do is stay one step ahead of him.”
“Have you been to the police?”
“Glenn, you know restraining orders aren’t worth the paper they’re written on,” she chided. “If he’s caught violating it, then it’s a felony misdemeanor or something like that, I don’t know the right term, but a restraining order never stopped anyone from doing something he really wants to do.”
He chewed on the reality of what she’d just said, scowling as he finally admitted she was right. “Damn, I hate to lose you. You’ve turned into a good waitress. Provided some entertainment around here, too. Got any idea where you’re going?”
Andie took a minute to get past the idea that she’d been providing entertainment, though she supposed he might have found a certain amusement in her threat to skewer some guy’s balls on a fork. “No, I’ll drive until I find somewhere that feels safe. I’ll shake him for a while, but he knows how to find people.” She knew exactly where she was going, but it was better that Glenn stay in the dark.
He heaved himself out of his chair and went to the electronic safe behind his desk. Keeping his bulk between her and the readout he punched in the numbers; there was a whirring sound, then a click as the lock opened. “Here’s what I owe you,” he said, counting out some cash from the day’s take. “Drive carefully, and God-speed.” He flushed again, then leaned forward and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “You’re a good woman, Andie. If you ever see your way clear to come back, there’s a job waiting for you.”
Andie smiled and impulsively gave him a quick, affectionate hug, then blinked back tears. “I’ll remember that. You take care, too.” She stopped suddenly, her gaze losing focus as she stared at him and through him. “You need to change your routine,” she blurted. “Stop taking the cash by the night deposit on your way home.”
“Well, damn it, when else am I supposed to take it?” he asked irritably. “The bank’s right on the way home and it isn’t as if I have a lot of time—”
“Make time. And use a different branch for the next week or so.”
His mouth opened, then he pressed his lips together in a grim line. “Are you having one of them visions?” he asked suspiciously.
“I don’t have visions,” she denied, her tone as irritated as his. “It’s common sense. You’ve been taking a chance going to the night deposit at the same branch every night, and you know it. Make better decisions, and you won’t get shot.”
She’d actually had the thought that he’d get knocked on the head and have a concussion, but getting shot sounded a lot
She had enough big-time decisions to handle on her own, she thought as she trudged out to her Explorer. The other second-shift waitresses were leaving at the same time, so she wasn’t alone and she supposed that was as safe as she was going to be. She didn’t see him, but then she hadn’t expected to. He was gone. Just as she felt his presence, she also felt his absence. He didn’t know she’d seen him, and the cat had gone off to take a nap somewhere, confident the mouse would stay in its hole.
She felt oddly…calm, now that her decision was made. The first thing she would do was take care of dispersing that two million dollars, because if she got killed before she did anything then the money would just sit there, not doing anyone any good. St. Jude’s could always use the bucks, and she would be helping sick kids. There. Decision made. It was so easy she wondered why she’d wrestled with the problem for so long.
Her second decision was that she would never be free as long as Rafael was alive. He would keep the assassin hunting her, and in the meantime he himself would keep on bringing drugs into the country, ruining lives, killing people, while he raked in the dough. She couldn’t let him continue.
She’d been a coward when she lived with him, making sure she never looked deep enough to find any hard evidence that could be used against him, deliberately ignoring the opportunities she’d had to discover more about what he was doing. She hadn’t wanted to know, and as a result she had no knowledge she could take to the FBI that might result in his arrest. Rafael had the money to fight the legal system, anyway; even if he was arraigned, he could keep the case dragging on in court for a long time.
But she knew him, knew the brutality he hid under his three-thousand-dollar suits and designer haircut. She knew his ego, and the rules of the world he lived in. If he actually saw her, if he knew she was alive and right under his nose, it would drive him nuts. He might lose all sense of caution, because his machismo couldn’t tolerate letting her go. He’d stop at nothing to kill her.
The FBI might be able to keep her safe. She hoped so, but with a sense of fatalism she accepted that they might not. One way or another, though, she had to do what she could to stop Rafael, to break up his business. This, then, was the cost of her new life—and the price might well be her life.
* * *
25
AT FIRST HE THOUGHT SHE HADN’T SEEN HIM. RATHER, he knew she’d seen him, but he thought she hadn’t recognized him. He’d gone to his car immediately, swearing at himself for being so damned stupid as to stand outside knowing a lightning flash could expose him at any minute. He’d felt compelled to watch her, though, and in the end the temptation had been too strong; she’d been laughing, and he’d realized how much he wanted to hear her melodious laugh again. So he’d stood there for a minute, and the next thing he knew a sheet of lightning lit up the night and she turned to look out the window.
The parking lot was lit, but the rain had seemed to absorb a lot of the light and he’d parked in a deep well of shadows between two rigs, in the area normally used only by the truckers. He could still see in the windows, though; that and the area of shadow were why he’d chosen that spot. He lowered a couple of windows just enough to let in some fresh air and keep the windshield from fogging, then sat in the dark and watched, waiting to see if she ran, but she had gone back to work and for a little while he’d let himself think she hadn’t recognized him. Then his instinct kicked in; did he want to take that chance? The answer was a definite no.
He hadn’t wanted her to ever know he was watching her, watching over her. She was terrified of him, with good reason. The one thing he didn’t want to do was frighten her again, or cause her more pain. Now he thought he probably didn’t have a choice. He had to see her, let her know she had nothing to fear from him, before she ran again.
She couldn’t get away from him, unless she jettisoned the phone and the SUV at the same time and he wasn’t able to pick up her trail, which was unlikely. But she’d wear herself out running, and she wouldn’t let herself settle anywhere. Drea was a woman who needed to settle; she needed a home, and friends, a life where she felt safe and normal. He didn’t want her to live in fear; he didn’t want her thinking she had to run for her life.
What would she do, when she left work? Would she immediately rabbit, or would she continue to act as if she hadn’t seen him, hoping to fake him into relaxing his guard? The second choice would take iron nerves, but she’d panicked before, and had the accident. He couldn’t let himself forget, ever, how sharp she was. She’d learn from her mistake, and she wouldn’t do the same thing twice.
He bet she’d go home. She’d probably sacrifice the Explorer, leaving it sitting in the driveway while she packed a few clothes and walked away in the wee hours of the morning. She would keep a supply of cash handy, just in case she had to leave everything on short notice, because she planned ahead.
He checked the time. It would be a couple of hours yet before her shift ended, and he didn’t want to leave the rental car parked on her street for that length of time, or this early in the night. People were still up, still watching television. Lights would begin winking out as soon as the ten o’clock news went off, because these people, by and large, weren’t part of the Leno and Letterman crowd. That was when he would move in. For now, he was in a good spot to watch and wait. If patience was a virtue, then he had at least one to his name.
At ten-thirty, he chose a moment when she had her back turned before starting the car and pulling out of his shadowed parking space. When he got to her house, he parked down the street and walked back. The rain had slackened to a drizzle, which allowed him to wear the concealing slicker but meant he had to be careful about dripping water anywhere she might see it.
She normally used the front door; she left the porch light on there, and she was protected from the weather. The kitchen stoop was uncovered, a bare and exposed two steps of crumbling concrete. The steps were already wet, so dripping on them wouldn’t matter. A storm door protected the inner wooden door from the elements, and it was locked. He had it open in five seconds. The inner door had a simple doorknob lock, the kind that wouldn’t keep out a ten-year-old, and opening it didn’t take as long as opening the storm door. He let himself in, removed his wet slicker and put it in the tiny laundry area just off the kitchen, then he mopped up the water he’d tracked in.
The little duplex didn’t afford many places where he could conceal himself. He didn’t want her to see him when she first let herself in the door, or she would bolt off the porch and run. He wanted her inside, the doors locked, which would slow her down and give him time to grab her, talk to her.
Logistically, the duplex apartment was a nightmare. The front door opened straight into the small living room, where what furniture she had was shoved against a wall because floor space was so limited. The single lamp she left burning was enough to light the entire room. Next was a tiny hallway, if it could be called that; it was just long enough to accommodate a closet on the inside wall, and he suspected the space had once belonged to the living room but some remodeling had been done when the house was turned into a duplex. There were no doors closing off the hallway; it flowed into the eat-in kitchen, where space was even more cramped because some of its area had been taken for the laundry. Next was the bedroom and bathroom, both of which were barely adequate for squeezing in the necessities.
He wanted to be between her and any door before she saw him. He also had to be close enough to get his hand over her mouth before she screamed the house down and the neighbors called the cops.
She would be terrified, at least at first; he hated that, but he couldn’t help it. She had to listen to him.
The best place to pos
There were a lot of things that could go wrong. If she was spooked, she might turn on the light in the kitchen. He had to be on his toes, ready to react to whatever she did. She would fight. No matter what, Drea was a survivor. She didn’t give up. She’d fight until she couldn’t fight anymore. He’d have to control her, without hurting her, until she either reached that point or he could get her to listen to him. He’d never held back in his life; the very concept was alien to him. If he fought, he fought to win. But with Drea, he wouldn’t be throwing any punches. She, however, wouldn’t be suffering under the same restriction, so he was prepared to absorb some damage before he got her under control. Part of him hated that she’d be so frightened, but beneath that was something he had to acknowledge: anticipation.
He’d have left her alone forever if life had shaken out that way. But it hadn’t, and finally—finally—he’d be touching her again, holding her close, even if only for a brief moment. He closed his eyes against the piercing heat of memory, of feeling her soft inner muscles clenching around him when she came. For four hours she’d been his, her slender arms locked around his neck, her legs around his hips.
Just for a little while, he’d be able to touch her again. He had no delusions about what would happen after he calmed her down and set her straight about any harm she thought he meant to do to her. Whether or not they ever had any more contact would be entirely up to her—and he knew how that would go.
He checked his watch. He had another twenty minutes, maybe half an hour. If he wanted to know for certain where she was, he could get his laptop from the car and track the locators he’d planted in her phone and vehicle, but he’d bother with that only if she didn’t show up on time.