What others are saying about
WHAT SHE DOESN’T KNOW
by
Jaime Rush/Tina Wainscott
Tina has unforgettable female protagonists and action-packed, almost haunting plotlines. – Janet Evanovich New York Times bestselling author
“Tina Wainscott always delivers … I love to curl up with anything she writes.” New York Times Bestselling author Heather Graham
The move to harder-edged suspense has certainly paid off for the multitalented Wainscott. She has joined the ranks of top-notch purveyors of gripping and
intense suspense. --RT Book Reviews, 4 ½ stars TOP PICK!
What She Doesn’t Know is suspenseful, tense drama of intrigue and deception. Ms. Wainscott does a wonderful job of keeping you in suspense about the true identity of the killer. With surprising twists and turns, this reviewer wasn't disappointed. – aromancereview.com
WHAT SHE DOESN’T KNOW
by
Tina Wainscott,
writing as Jaime Rush
(originally published 2004 under
Tina Wainscott, from St. Martin’s Press)
Discover other titles by Tina Wainscott/Jaime Rush at https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/JaimeRush. For more information, sneak peeks, and contests, go to www.jaimerush.com
Copyright © 2004 Tina Wainscott
Smashwords Edition
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or redistributed. If you would like to share this book, please purchase additional copies for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, please return to your online bookstore of choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work.
DEDICATIONS
Dedicated to my mom, Christine Ritter and my intrepid critique partner, Marty Ambrose, for never giving up!
My everlasting appreciation goes out to Vicki Hinze for being my literary angel, and to Joan Johnston, Julie Ortolon, Kay Hooper, Lisa Gardner, and Heather Graham for your kindnesses.
And last but not least, this book is dedicated to a writing angel in heaven who fought a valiant battle like a true heroine—Susan MacGillivray.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My gratitude goes out to many people who assisted me in the research aspects of this book. Whether it was just a quick call or a lengthy conversation, that they took time out of their busy schedule to help always touches me. Of course, any errors are due to my misinterpretation of the facts.
Michael Geraghty, Ph.D, who graciously spent lunch answering my many questions.
Joe Agresti for assisting on matters of police procedure.
Sherrilyn Kenyon, who helped me sort out the computer end of gaming.
Brian Housewert of Paradise Computer Repair and Web design for help on updating technology.
PROLOGUE
January 1.
Something wasn’t right. The moment Brian LaPorte walked into his home he sensed it, even as tired as he was from hosting a hotel full of guests for the New Year’s Eve party. He stripped off his tie as he tried to figure out what it was. Dark quiet permeated the house as it always did in the evenings. Shadows clung to the corners and hung in doorways. The scent of pine cleanser hung in the listless air. He looked to the top of the curving staircase to his bedroom. Light crept beneath the door, and he heard a faint tapping sound.
As soon as he opened the door, the person sitting at his computer turned around. The gold and black-feathered mask startled him as much as the person’s presence. The mask ended below the nose and revealed lips painted dark burgundy. Emerald green eyes blinked in surprise through the eye slots, but surprise morphed to a mixture of hurt and determination.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked, taking in the black body suit and long, black hair as she stood. A woman. Purple shoes with spiked heels made her look taller than she was.
“Don’t you recognize me, baby?” Her body was thin, muscular, but the suit sculpted small, firm breasts. “It’s Sira.”
A cold chill washed over him. Sira, here. How had she found him? It was a violation of the rules, a breach of trust. “What are you doing in my house? On my computer?”
“You’ve been cheating on me. You used me, and now you want to replace me.”
His anger turned to apprehension. What did she want? She’d gone so far as to track him down and then break into his computer. “You’re not supposed to know who the players are. That’s one of the rules of the game.”
Her smile looked eerie beneath the mask. “I’m playing by half the rules. You still don’t know who I am.”
The playful words prickled at the edge of his senses. “Leave. Now.”
She did leave, only she went gone out the French doors leading to the gallery. There was no exit from there.
He followed her out into the crisp, late December air and grabbed her arm. “If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police.”
She pulled free and walked to the end of the gallery where the staircase spiraled to the rooftop deck. Seductively, she slid her fingers along the curving banister. “You’d be violating your own rules. You’d have to tell them where we met…and how you betrayed me.”
He couldn’t tell them the truth, but he had to get rid of her. She climbed the steps to the deck. His fingers gripped the cold metal railing as he followed her. She stood with her arms crossed in front of her, looking as though she wouldn’t leave until she got what she wanted. He’d better find out what that was.
“I’ve watched you up here,” she said, “leaning against this railing. I hoped you were thinking of me.”
She’d been watching him? The thought chilled him even more. “What do you want?” he asked through gritted teeth.
She trailed a finger down his chest. “I want you. I want to be your Queen. I deserve that after all I’ve done for Xanadu.”
Foreboding pressed against his chest. “What have you done?”
“Protected it. Cherished it. Loved it. That’s all I want for myself, to be protected…cherished…loved. I’ve been a part of Xanadu from the beginning. I helped build it. I am your perfect other half. That woman won’t be a player. She’d never have the guts to do what needs to be done.”
He didn’t like that last phrase. “What needs to be done?”
“Rita Brooks is a shrink! She might tell you we’re all crazy. She might convince you to close us down. She needs to be banished.”
Anger and fear mixed equally. He especially didn’t like that she knew who Rita was. “She’s not playing. She doesn’t even know.”
“Banished, before it’s too late,” Sira said, ignoring him again. “You need a powerful queen. You need me.”
She started to kiss him, but he pushed her back. His anger overrode his fear. “I don’t need you. I don’t want you. You broke the rules.”
“No, I--”
“I’m going to banish you.”
“No!” Fear gripped her features, and she lunged forward and grabbed his sleeve. One of his tie tacks skittered across the deck.
The threat backfired. Her reaction was pure panic, her movements frenzied as they struggled.
“You will never banish me. Never!” she said in jerky breaths.
He needed to overpower her and talk sense into her. She was smaller than he was, and he tried not to fight too hard. He didn’t want to hurt her, only to get rid of her.
That turned out to be another mistake. Her strength surprised him as she hit him on the side of his head. He punched her in the face, but he’d still been holding back. She shoved him so hard he was thrown against the short railing. His head spun from the blow, but even through the floating spots in his vision he could clearly see the look of pure madness in her eyes. He held out his hand as he tried to gain his breath. “Sira…”
She rushed forward and pushed him. His stomach took the brunt of the force. He lost his footing—and went over the railing. As his arms and legs flailed, images from his life flashed before him: the swordfight with his brother, his father’s funeral where he’d said hurtful things he couldn’t take back. But his final thought was of Rita. He had to warn her…
CHAPTER 1
January 2.
Dr. Rita Brooks was thinking about falling in love. Considering it, the way one would consider buying a car or a house; the pros and cons, risks, comfort levels. It had been a long time since she’d let herself entertain such a thought. That the man in question lived 1500 miles away in New Orleans actually made things easier. That they’d never met wasn’t important.
As a side hobby, she scrounged through flea markets and resale shops for things she could sell at on-line auctions. Brian LaPorte had emailed her about a dagger, and soon they were writing back and forth. They had eased right past easy camaraderie and flirting and moved to a deeper relationship.
She ran through the cold rain to her car, her Chinese take out in a brown paper bag. For a second, the air froze in her throat. A shadow shifted behind her car. She blinked, and it was gone. She glanced in the back seat, just to make sure, before sliding into her Volvo. She locked the doors, turned the engine, and pulled out of the parking lot. A car two spots away did the same and fell into place behind her. That was probably the shadow she’d seen; someone else getting into their car.
Heat slowly emerged from the vents. Her cheeks stung from the cold, and she aimed one of the vents at her face. The dark, blotchy sky dumped down slushy rain that glowed in the street lights. The Montreal Express was in full tilt, the northern wind crushing Boston in its winter grip.
She’d been putting off Brian’s request for a photo exchange with excuses about finding the right picture. Truthfully, she had this fantasy of him based on the poetic way he spoke and didn’t want to spoil it. It was time, though. She’d gone through the photos on her computer, most sent to her from friends, and found a decent shot where her light blue eyes weren’t washed out or devil-red and her wavy hair wasn’t a brown cloud. Tonight she’d surprise him and email it.
The next step would be face to face. What harm could come from that? A safe, public meeting of course, in case she’d misjudged him. But she doubted it. She was trained in judging people after all. They’d take it slow, and maybe, just maybe, this would go somewhere. Her heart spun with possibilities.
She couldn’t help but remember how her last burgeoning relationship had ended a year ago, with her running out of his apartment, and Bill calling after her. Rita, what’s wrong with you?
The car that had followed her out of the parking lot was still behind her as she navigated the icy highway. Right behind her. Its headlights blinded her in the rearview mirror. She pushed down on the gas but lifted her foot again. “I’m not going any faster, jerk. You want to kill yourself on these roads, go around me.”
The car did start to pass her. She glanced over, expecting to see it full of teenagers. Her heart jumped at the sight of an inhuman face. Before she could make any sense of it, the car slammed into her.
The wheel pulled out of her hands. She grabbed it as her car swerved toward a concrete barrier. She had no time to scream or pray. Only to realize that in her haste, she hadn’t put on her seat belt.
January 6.
Rita, what’s wrong with you?
First the words resounded through her mind in her mother’s voice, a rail-thin woman glaring at the sloppy job a nine-year-old Rita had done making macaroni and cheese.
Rita, what’s wrong with you?
Then it was her father Charlie’s voice chastising her for daring to intrude into his sacred office to bother him over a broken finger.
Rita, what’s wrong with you?
Bill’s voice now, as she made the passage from one place to another, all in the dark recesses of her mind. When the voices and sounds from the outside world faded, when her friend Marty’s voice wasn’t commanding her to “Wake up from that damned coma! You know how I hate hospitals!” When Rita didn’t feel the prick of a needle or anything else to remind her she was still alive, that’s when she made the journey.
At first she felt herself swimming beneath the sea, the surface becoming a muted reflection of the life that went on around her. Everything was dark and liquid, and she became fluid with it as she tried to swim free. The thickening liquid held her arms and legs immobile. She imagined herself a piece of fruit suspended in a dark blue ring of Jell-O.
That’s when the voices would come, snatches of words and memories. She didn’t know what was real anymore. Was she a little girl again, wishing her mother would come home from the bar she tended…dreading it at the same time? Was she a teenager, wearing an outlandish outfit in hopes that her father might notice her? It seemed odd that she should see the scenes, hear the words, and not feel the pain. Maybe this was the place between life and the hereafter, where one came to terms with their grief, shortcomings, and fears.
She never had enough time to contemplate it thoroughly, for soon she would pass into the gray place. It seemed to go on forever, shimmering waves of gray. When she’d first come, she thought it must be where your sins were called up, where you watched every mean, selfish thing you ever did and begged for forgiveness.
There were others in this place. No one spoke or smiled or even looked at her. The gauzy texture of the air made it hard to make eye contact. This was where she went when no one pulled her back to reality. The strangest part, she thought, was that it didn’t seem strange at all. She and everyone else were supposed to be there, together, yet locked in their own worlds. A sense of waiting permeated her whenever she came here. Waiting to go back; waiting to go on.
On this journey into the gray, she felt a throbbing pain in her head, an overwhelming fatigue in a body she had not felt at all for so long. She wasn’t supposed to feel pain here in the gray place. It had followed her, as did some of the other sounds from the world: blips and humming noises, voices. The others seemed gauzier than usual.
Except for the man. He moved through the people, his journey purposeful somehow when everyone else moved lethargically. He came to a stop in front of her. He was handsome, with blond hair and blue eyes filled with urgency and clarity. His presence infused her with warmth. Had he come to lead her onward?
She wasn’t afraid. But when he reached for her, set his hands on her shoulders, violence shattered the peace. A barrage of images flashed through her mind, so fast she couldn’t hold onto any of them. She could feel them, though, shock and pain and fear, especially fear at the end. Then she was falling, her arms flailing, a scream caught in her throat. A scream that was her name. Before she hit the ground, she felt a gust of air rush through her body.
When she came to, she hardly had a chance to register shock that she’d been in a coma for four days. And that her mother, whom she hadn’t seen in three years, had played doting mom for the first time in Rita’s life. She could hardly register the humility of being an inconvenience to everyone. She could vaguely remember the place of bad memories. There was something else, too. Something important, but she couldn’t quite remember.
“How are you doin’, honey?”
Angela Brooks stood beside Rita’s bed two days later, wringing the black knit hat with the Jersey Devils emblem on it like a washcloth. None of the hospital staff saw Rita’s mother sitting vigil as the anomaly it was. Angela had only been a mother for Rita’s first ten years of life, and barely that.
“I’m okay, Angela. Tired, achy. But okay.” Rita’s attention kept drawing back to the green Jell-O on the plate in front of her.
Angela’s face pinched, deepening her wrinkles. “You don’t have to call me by my name. I know your dad made you call him Charlie, the bonehead, but I’m your mama.”
Mama. The word wanted to roll out, but Rita held it in.
Angela awkwardly took Rita’s hand, overly cautious of the IV still imbedded in her wrist. That motion seemed as odd as the woman’s presence, but Rita didn’t pull away. Instead, she studied the thin, wiry woman who looked so much older than her fifty years.
“You know what they call this place?” Angela asked conspiratorially. “Massive Genital. That’s what they told me down at the diner by my motel. That doesn’t sound too reassuring, a big private part. Maybe we should move you somewhere else.”
“It’s just a joke. Mass General is a good hospital.”
“If you’re sure. How’s your doctor? He okay? I can get you another one.”
“I’m fine, really.”
Angela looked around, as though searching for something else she could find at fault and fix to prove her good intentions. When she could find nothing, she went back to mangling her hat. “Honey, I know I wasn’t the best mother.” She laughed harshly. “Or even a good mother. Lord knows I made mistakes. Let me be your mama now. Let me take care of you, cook for you, make sure you’re okay. They said you have to take it real easy after you’re released.”
Rita ignored the way something inside her ached. “No.” As Angela’s hopeful—desperately hopeful--face crumpled, Rita felt obliged to add, “I don’t need help. I couldn’t…” Her words drifted off, because she couldn’t say them. The truth was, she thought she’d worked through her mother issues during her psychology training in college. That’s why she’d found Angela five years ago. But she was having trouble connecting to her, and a part of Rita couldn’t bear getting used to having her around before she left again. She’d lost her mother once, when the social worker had taken Rita away to live with her father, and again when she realized Angela wasn’t even trying to get her back. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.” She’d once believed that if she didn’t bother her mother, or Charlie, or his mother, Maura, that maybe they’d love her. Needs, wants, boo-boos and colds all fell under that category, so she’d learned to handle them herself. “I’ve been on my own for a long time now. I’ve taken care of myself—”
“I know, since you was a little girl. I dumped a lot on you.” Angela looked away in shame. “At least Charlie gave you food, clothes, a home.”
Rita swallowed the truth. “I had what I needed.” The essentials, but never a home.
“You had to know I was only thinking of your welfare when I let them take you. Even with child support, I just couldn’t make it.”
Rita swallowed back more words, wondering how long she could do that before they all exploded out of her. She and Angela had been here before, when Angela had apologized a thousand times for the neglect and bouts of rage that consumed her when the burden of merely surviving became too much to bear.
Rita looked up to see Marty in the doorway. “Come in!”
Angela moved out of the way and watched the two women hug. Rita wished she could include her in, but she didn’t know how. Wasn’t sure she wanted to start something. Allowed her to back away with the excuse of needing a smoke.
“I wasn’t interrupting, was I?” Marty asked, perching on the side of the bed, more comfortable with Rita than her own mother had been.
“Not at all.”
Rita and Marty had met in college during graduate school. They had both done internships at the Warner Center for Mental Health and had stayed on where their friendship had deepened. Rita tried to ignore the fact that Marty was a tall, blond beauty. They were opposite in both looks and personalities--Marty’s effervescence to Rita’s no-nonsense. It was Marty’s phobias that fueled Rita’s interest in phobic patients. Marty had shared the aspects of her childhood that led her to phobias, like being locked in a bathroom for punishment and having to use the same towel all month. Only she hadn’t told Marty the truth about a lot of her life.
“She was here every day,” Marty said.
“How did she even know?”
“I called her. I thought she should know, in case…”
“I died.” Rita had been knocked around the car hard enough to put her in a coma, but aside from a mild head injury and massive bruising, she’d had no other serious injuries. Thank you, God, she mentally added. “I could hear you talking to me.”
“Could you? The doctor said you might, but I wasn’t sure. You looked like you were far away. It was scary.”
“Thanks. For talking to me and for being here.”
“You couldn’t keep me away.” Marty returned the squeeze of her hand.
“Have you gotten over your hospital phobia then?”
“Yes, you cured me by extreme exposure therapy. It wasn’t easy. I’d close my eyes in the elevator and then race out as soon as the door opened. I couldn’t just keep sitting outside in my car thinking that was enough.”
They shared a smile. It felt good to latch onto something familiar.
Marty’s expression grew more solemn. “The officer who investigated your accident is down the hall. He was talking to your doctor about asking you some questions.”
“I don’t remember much.” The doctor had told her it was normal not to remember a lot about the time right before the accident.
A handsome man with silver hair and blue eyes knocked at her open door. “Rita Brooks?” he asked, walking in. “I’m Officer Michael Potter. I was on the scene of your accident. You up for some questions?”
Rita shifted in bed, sitting up straighter. “I have some of my own, actually. I’m afraid I don’t remember much about that night.” She introduced Marty and invited the officer to sit in the vacant chair while Marty settled on the bed.
“I was hoping you’d remember something, anything about the driver. The car that hit you was stolen. We’ve had a rash of teens taking cars for joyrides, though this is the first time there has been injury to others. We caught three kids pulling off a theft a week ago and we’re trying to tie them to some of the other thefts. Particularly the one involving your accident. The car that hit yours was wiped clean of prints.” He handed her three arrest photos. “Do you recognize any of these kids from that night?”
Rita tried hard to pull up something. Sometimes she’d get a sliver of memory. After a minute, she shook her head and handed the pictures back. “I wish I could help. These kids…how old are they?”
“Two are fifteen; one’s seventeen.”
Rita grimaced. They were kids.
“A witness saw the accident from a distance, but unfortunately he can’t ID the occupants. The other vehicle came up beside you as though he were going to pass but then slammed into the side of your car.”
“You don’t think the driver intentionally ran me off the road, do you?”
“Hard to determine. Drugs or alcohol or plain inexperience could be factors.” He put away the pictures. “How are you feeling?”
The car came up beside her…something niggled at that, but she couldn’t draw it close enough. “Good, thanks. It looks like I’ll survive.”
He nodded at both her and Marty. “If you remember anything, please call me at the station.” He handed her a card and left.
“The driver ran his car into me. Why?” Rita asked Marty.
“You can’t look at it as something personal. When you’re feeling better, we’ll discuss rage, helplessness, and the whims of fate.”
Rita nodded, but why did she feel this was no whim of fate?
CHAPTER 2
February 10.
Rita’s mind drifted through foggy images.
The man coming toward her. His hands on her shoulders, blue eyes urgently staring into hers. Frames of a life flashing through her mind.
A dark-haired boy wielding a sword. A long, silver blade flashing in the light. Blood. Rage.
A funeral on a bleak day. Sadness. Harsh words, “The prodigal son returns. Too bad no one wants you here.” Regret.
A black-clad figure rushing forward, green eyes glittering with anger. A gold mask concealing identity, a spray of black feathers. A falling sensation. Fear. Rita!
“Brian!”
“Rita?”
The nudge of her arm was definitely not in the dream, and her mind picked through the swampy darkness of half-sleep. Since her coma, waking was harder than she would admit to anyone. It was a slow process, dragging herself through the layers until she could put her surroundings together.
Marty smiled as Rita’s mind and vision came into full focus. Marty. “Oh, my gosh, I fell asleep at work,” she muttered, glancing at the clock. An hour had passed since she’d closed her eyes and pondered Anna’s persistent obsessive-compulsive disorder. They’d been able to vanquish her germ phobia that had her washing her hands more than eighty times a day. Her other compulsion was proving much harder to control. Rita glanced at her clock. It was after five.
“I told you it was too soon to go back to work.”
“I would have gone crazy if I’d stayed home another week. Besides, I have a light load.”
Or was she already crazy? That slideshow of images had plagued her sleep for the five weeks since she woke from her coma. The mystery of it had been a distraction from the aches and the sight of her battered body when she had looked in a mirror at least. Now her body had healed, and the images were becoming more persistent.
“It’s the weather.” Rita gestured to the window. Bleak skies expelled wet snow that made everything glisten under a coating of deadly ice.
Marty stretched out on the leather chaise lounge. “Who’s Brian?”
“I, uh…Why do you ask?”
“You said his name in your sleep.”
Damn, she’d said it aloud. Why had she said his name? Probably because she hovered between worrying and being mad at him. She hadn’t heard from him since her accident. She had emailed him twice from the Internet café at the hospital. He’d never called or emailed back. By the time she’d gone home, she’d been too put off to call him. Then she discovered her PC had crashed and swallowed everything. So she gave him the benefit of the doubt and sent another email last week. Still no answer.
She reached for the file on her desk. “I’m not sure why I said that name.” She hadn’t told anyone, even Marty, about her relationship with Brian. “Let’s talk about phobias. No repercussions on the exposure therapy of the hospital phobia?”
“I’ve had a few of my hospital dreams where I go in for an appendectomy and come out an old, Asian man. What I don’t have a problem with is avoiding answering questions. You do look a little like hell.”
Rita rested her chin on her hand. “I’m not sleeping well, that’s all.” The problem wasn’t lack of sleep; it was too much dreaming.
“You know how I know you’re not ready to be back at work yet?”
Rita gave her a patronizing smile. “How is that?”
“Because your pencils and pens are all mixed together. And your stack of folders isn’t precisely lined up. See, there’s an edge sticking out.”
Rita eyed the stack. “Are you trying to tell me I’m obsessively neat?”
“Of course not. You’re neurotically neat. I’ve been in your closet, remember? You are the only person I know who color-codes her clothes and shoes. My diagnosis is you need to get a life. But I’ve been saying that for years and you haven’t listened. You’re a therapist’s nightmare.”
Rita wrinkled her nose. She’d been close to getting a life. “I really appreciate you taking care of things for me while I was in the hospital.” She straightened her folders.
Marty tapped her chin. “And I know an evasive tactic when I see one.”
“Coffee? I could use a cup.”
“Textbook!”
They walked down to the break room.
Marty asked, “Heard from your mother?”
Rita poured her fourth cup of coffee, ignoring her jittery hands. “Once. We’ve left things on neutral ground for now.” She took a doughnut from the box on the counter, trying to forget that she’d already had one. “I don’t know who keeps bringing these in, but they’ve got to stop.” She sighed as a billion grams of sugar dissolved in her mouth. “I think there’s a fat person inside me screaming to get out.”
“Bill called while you were in the hospital after hearing about your accident. He told me he’s tried to get back with you over the last year, but you keep putting him off.”
“He’s not my type.”
“He’s exactly your type, that sweet, Bill Pullman kind of guy who calls to check on a woman who ditched him a year ago.” Marty lowered her voice. “He told me about your nosebleed when he tried to kiss you.”
“So I got a nosebleed. Big deal.”
“If it’s no big deal, why are you pulverizing that doughnut?”
“Shh!” Rita tossed the mashed doughnut in the garbage.
Marty followed Rita back to her office, whispering, “You’re just too embarrassed to admit you need help. It’s all right for those schooled in the mind to ask for help. Heck, I think most therapists need counseling even after their early training. This has something to do with the fact that you haven’t had a real boyfriend since I’ve known you, doesn’t it?”
Rita closed her office door behind them and walked to her desk, wanting to feel in control again. “It’s just a little problem relating to men. Nothing for you to worry about.” Marty wanted to understand…to know her deepest, darkest place where she hid the girl whose father had only one lesson to teach her: men were removed and aloof, mysterious and alien.
“I think you have a phobia about people worrying about you,” Marty said, crossing her arms. “Why is that?”
Barbara, the receptionist, tapped on the door and poked her head in. “Oh, excuse me, I didn’t know you were busy.”
“We’re done,” Rita said.
“Done!” Marty threw her hands up. “She’s hardly opened up at all.”
Rita kept smiling at Barbara, wishing she could kick Marty under the desk.
“There’s a gentleman here to see you, Rita. Christopher LaPorte.” She raised her eyebrows and waited for a reaction.
“I don’t have anyone else scheduled for today.”
“Oh, I thought you knew him.” Barb’s brown eyes twinkled. “Thought maybe he was your new gig. I was going to applaud your outstanding taste. He said he didn’t have an appointment, but he acted like it was pretty important that he speak with you.”
“Barb, can you tell him that I only counsel female patients?” How could Rita help men figure out their problems when she had problems figuring out men?
A few minutes later, Barb was back. “He’s not leaving until he speaks with you. He says it’s personal.”
“Personal,” Rita repeated, pulling herself to her feet. How could she have personal business with someone she’d never heard of?
“Wish he had personal business with me,” Barb muttered, backing out of the door and heading to the ladies’ room.
Rita’s heartbeat jumped. Wait a minute. LaPorte? Is that what Barb had said his last name was? Brian’s last name. But not Brian. A mispronunciation then? Coincidence?
He was standing with his back to the hallway, reading the positive messages hanging on the walls about self-esteem, love, and friendship. His dark, short hair looked wet from the snow. He had a backside that belonged in one of those Chippendale calendars and a well-built chest encased in a black sweater. A wrinkled winter coat was slung over his shoulder. Not Brian, who said he had blond hair and was only 5’10.
“Can I help you?”
He turned around, and he may as well have punched her in the stomach.
It was him, the man she’d seen in the gray place. The intense dark blue eyes and that mouth with the built-in pout. Her knees went soft.
“You’re Rita Brooks?” he asked in a voice flavored with a hint of Southern Comfort, like Brian’s voice.
Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t utter a sound. She just kept staring at his eyes.
“Yes, she is.” Marty stepped in to save her. “What can we do for you?”
He acknowledged Marty’s protective stance but trained his eyes on Rita as he took a step closer. With him came the aroma of grapes mixed with the subtle spice of deodorant. His face was dry and red, as though he’d hastily shaved in a gas station restroom on his way here. He had the handsome, angular kind of face she’d seen in advertisements for shaving cream.
“Do you know my brother, Brian LaPorte?”
Brian, he was Brian’s brother, and he was here, which meant something was wrong with Brian, and that’s why she hadn’t heard from him. As her mind clamped around those facts, Christopher’s similarity to the man she’d seen during her coma still confused her. “Excuse us for a moment,” she mouthed to Marty as she led Christopher to the front corner of the lobby. “What’s wrong with Brian?”
He seemed to gauge her, though she wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Maybe he saw the tension on her face, because he finally answered. “Brian jumped off the rooftop deck of his house. He’s in a coma.”
Her mind spun. Jumped? Coma? “Oh, my God. When?”
“January first. I’m trying to…”
His words faded beneath the buzz in her head. January first. She’d gone into a coma January second. That meant they were in a coma at the same time, for four overlapping days. The man who had urgently sought her out…it was Brian. Her analytical side wanted to deny it, but she knew it in the deepest recess of her soul. Brian had come to her.
Christopher was still talking, and finally his words broke through the buzz. “If you broke his heart, and he tried to take his life, it’s not your fault. I just need to know where his head was.”
“Wait a minute. You’re saying he tried to kill himself.”
He was trying to find out if she had anything to do with Brian’s fall. By the hard look in his eyes, he had already made that assumption.
“How did you find me?” she asked, trying to ground herself in concrete facts.
“From your email to him.”
“I didn’t put my full name and address in that email. I didn’t put my work address in it.” She was starting to feel suspicious, too. She slid a glance to Marty, who was surreptitiously hanging around Barb’s desk.
“That’s not important. What’s important is finding out what drove a man who had everything to live for to try to kill himself. I think you know why.”
Important. There was something important. Brian found you. Why? She put her hand over her mouth, sorting through the improbability of it all, and yet she could see the man clearly, holding onto her shoulders, staring into her eyes as though willing her to do something—
Christopher’s hand on her shoulder jarred her out of those thoughts. “Tell me what was going on between you two.”
Conflicting emotions bombarded her, and to her horror, she felt the tingling that preceded her nosebleeds. This cannot be happening.
He crowded her personal zone to intimidate her. “What is it that you’re hiding?”
She felt the first trickle of blood and pressed her finger against the side of her nose. Something was very wrong. “I can’t believe he tried to take his own life. Are you sure it wasn’t an accidental fall?” Her voice hardly sounded convincing, all nasally like Fran Drescher in The Nanny.
Christopher looked at her the way a tiger moving in on something that’s caught its eye would, with interest and suspicion. “I’m sure.” Besides, he’d probably read their emails. The thought of that made anger even out the strange sense of panic for a moment.
Rita inched toward the receptionist’s desk just as Barb walked back in. He watched her, the muscles in his jaw working as he chewed what must be grape gum. Rita found the Kleenex and covered her nose with a wad of it. “I’m fine,” she assured Marty, who obviously didn’t believe her. Before she could ask any questions, Rita returned to Christopher. Control, control. “How is Brian? Do the doctors think he’ll come out?”
“I’ll answer your questions when you answer mine.”
“I did answer yours.”
“Look, Rita Brooks, I know you’re hiding something. I can see it in your eyes, in your body language. Spill it.”
She was hiding something, but she couldn’t spill that she believed Brian had come to her during her coma. She needed time to sort it out. The revelation totally knocked her off balance, and Christopher’s presence wasn’t helping. “If I knew something, I’d tell you. I had nothing to do with a suicide attempt. I can’t even believe he would do something like that.”
“What’s wrong with your nose?”
“I have a cold,” she said, pitifully aware of how it sounded.
Marty, however, had to be more helpful. “Rita, you’re bleeding!” She stalked over and turned an outraged glare to Christopher. “Did he hit you? Barb, call security.”
He looked calm, despite his obvious impatience and the accusation. “I didn’t hit her. I only—”
“He didn’t hit me. I can handle this,” Rita interjected, wanting no more to be said.
“Well, you’re not handling it.” Marty turned to Christopher. “Look, you’re upsetting her. Why don’t you leave?”
Yes, he should leave. Rita pulled the Kleenex away from her nose and saw the spot of bright red blood. Why was this happening? Her nose only bled in one situation. “I really don’t know anything, and if you won’t answer my questions about Brian’s condition, you should leave.” Dammit, she wouldn’t be able to find out on her own, though.
He stood there chewing his gum as though contemplating throwing her over his shoulder and hauling her off for further interrogation. Despite her nosebleed, that thought sparked something primal inside her. She squelched it and turned away.
“Rita.”
The way his voice wrapped around her name shivered down her spine. She didn’t want to turn and face him again, but she did anyway. He handed her a business card.
“I’ll be at the address and phone number on the back. In New Orleans.” He paused, his narrowed eyes telling her he knew she was holding something back. “If you decide you want to talk, call me.” His voice softened, thick as honey. “You’re the key to this mystery, Rita Brooks. I feel it in my gut. And I will find out the truth.”
He seemed to weigh whether to say more, but her friends must have swayed him. He left, without a scuffle, without Barb having to call security as she was poised to do. His words, soft though they were, pounded through Rita’s system louder than her heartbeat.
“What was that all about?” Barb asked.
“Just a misunderstanding,” Rita said, waving it off as she walked to her office.
Marty wouldn’t be so easy to deal with. “Spill,” she said as soon as Rita closed the door to her office. “And don’t tell me it’s just a coincidence that the name of his brother is the same as the one you said in your sleep. I saw the look on your face when you saw Christopher LaPorte. You were spooked—enough to get a nosebleed.”
Rita slumped in her chair, still trying to get a handle on it all. Marty was waiting, and by the way she tapped her fingers against her crossed arms, she wasn’t going to wait patiently.
She told Marty about meeting Brian through her eBay auction and their developing relationship. “It was nothing kinky. In fact, it was rather sweet. Romantic. He talks like a hero from a historical romance novel. He lives in New Orleans and manages a hotel. Marty, he made me feel so good. About myself, life, my future. I told him things I haven’t told anyone else. The fact that we were talking on the phone helped a lot. It was part of the appeal, I’m sure. But it was him, too. We were friends with a touch of something else. I was so sure he was going to change my life. I could feel it.” She could see Marty’s expression fall with each word. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d either warn me about all the crazies out there or think I was desperate. For the first time, I was being adventurous, and I liked it. I didn’t want you to talk sense into me.”
“You were desperate. And I would have warned you. There are a lot of crazies out there. Why would you have a relationship with someone you’d never even met?”
“It was Brian. And the physical distance made it easier somehow.” Easier to get past her fear of intimacy. “For the first time in my twenty-eight years, I felt ready to embark on an actual romantic relationship. Brian was the only man who has ever given me a sensual charge and made me feel safe at the same time. He bolstered my confidence and made me wonder if I could get over my little problem.” She dabbed at her nose and was relieved to see no blood on the tissue. “I was ready to fall in love with him before my accident. A little scared, but ready.”
“And you never told me, you little bugger. I share all my idiosyncrasies with you, and you hold back something like this. We’re supposed to be best friends, equally sharing our dreams, pain, and secrets.”
“I know.” It wasn’t fair, she knew that. “I would have told you once we met.” Rita felt that ache she’d been feeling whenever she thought of Brian lately, only now it was two-fold. “He wanted to meet, even invited me to New Orleans or offered to come here. I kept putting him off, but I was about to invite him here. When I didn’t hear from him, I thought he’d changed his mind or found someone else. Then Christopher LaPorte shows up. Yeah, I was spooked. He looks so much like Brian. It was just a shock, that and the news about Brian’s suicide attempt. It was too much to handle at once.” That must be why I had the nosebleed. “I can’t believe he tried to kill himself. I mean it doesn’t feel right. We talked on New Year’s Eve. He called me from the hotel. He sounded happy.”
Marty seemed to accept everything. That was only because Rita had left out the important parts: the man she’d seen in the gray place…and the fact that she’d never seen Brian LaPorte.
CHAPTER 3
Plain out, the woman was holding something back. Christopher slid into his winter coat as he walked to his car. Her reaction to Brian’s name screamed guilt and then shock when he dropped the news about the coma, and finally concern that went deeper than a casual, perfunctory interest.
She hardly looked like a heartbreaker, though. A professional woman with initials after her name. Soft and flighty as a hummingbird. Not Brian’s type, at least the type he used to go after. Brian only went for prettiest, best-connected girls, the kind Daddy would approve of. This Rita would not send a man into the abyss of suicide. It had nothing to do with her plain-pretty looks, or the soft curves he detected beneath her business attire. In those light blue eyes of hers, he saw vulnerability. The way her face paled when she saw him, the way her body stiffened. He’d been sure she knew something, but he didn’t like the way he’d used her trepidation against her.
You are used to intimidating people, after all. And you’re good at it, a voice reminded him. Normally it didn’t bother him.
He thought about trying to talk to Rita again, maybe wait at her apartment until she got home. He knew the information highway better than any virtual road. More to the point, he knew the by-ways that allowed him access into the private life of Rita Brooks. He glanced at the address he’d scrawled on a piece of paper, her home address.
Her email had come into Brian’s inbox last week. Just a few words: Brian, haven’t heard from you in a while. I was in the hospital but am home now. If you want to break things off, please at least let me know so I won’t worry. Simply signed Rita. The weird thing was, there were no other emails from her in his inbox. Old phone bills were gone, too. Christopher had tried to login into the account, but he wasn’t authorized.
He’d let her go for now. He’d been away from Brian too long. It was time to go the airport, back home to New Orleans.
No, not home. Not in thirteen years. Just a place now, a city torn between old-line social traditions, the past, and trying to rebuild to its past glory.
Maybe this whole Rita thing had been a waste of time. When that email had come in, he had wanted it to mean something, wanted this woman to give him the reason why Brian had tried to throw his life away.
Maybe you just wanted a reason to get away from that hospital and the lifeless form of your brother. Away from the realization that the man you’ve hated your whole life might die…and that you were the wrong person to be standing vigil by his bedside.
By the time he landed in New Orleans, it was late Wednesday night. The City that Care Forgot was gearing up for Mardi Gras. Natives had mixed feelings about the festivities that held New Orleans in its grip for the weeks between the Twelfth Night of Christmas and Shrove Tuesday, better known as Fat Tuesday. Those who stood to profit from it, of course, loved it. The krewes—the social clubs that went back decades—were getting ready to put on their parades, the culmination of a year’s worth of preparation, planning, and pageantry. The police dreaded it, the same way Christopher did, but for different reasons. He’d never been able to shake off the annual family ritual that had forever tainted the holiday. Or the bloodshed on his last New Orleans Mardi Gras.
The flow of traffic was already thickening like gravy. He fought impatience as he headed to the hospital. Classic Aerosmith pounded from the stereo. He hadn’t seen Brian in a week, the time it had taken to track down Rita Brooks and to stop in Atlanta and cram in three business meetings for his website design business.
Sasha, the respiratory therapist, had Brian on his side and was tapping his back. To promote the movement of secretions in the lungs, Christopher remembered. She was talking softly to him, so softly he couldn’t hear what she was saying. He knew more about bodily functions and the risks of long-term unconsciousness than he ever wanted to.
He walked up behind her and caught the words, “come out of this--” before she turned and jumped. “You startled me!” She was trim woman in her thirties with blue eyes that held an almost too-bright shine. He thought she looked familiar, like someone from school maybe, but didn’t care enough to ask. She laughed a bit nervously. “I was talking to him, just making conversation. How was your trip?”
“Just got in. Anything changed?”
She shook her head, repositioning Brian to prone. “Brain injuries are the most frustrating. We don’t know how long he’ll be under or what he’ll be like when he comes out.” She patted Brian’s arm. “But you’ll be fine, won’t you? And you’ll tell us what was going on in that pretty head of yours before this happened.” She jotted down some information on his chart and hung it up. “Talk to him.” She patted Christopher’s arm the same way as she walked past him. “He likes to hear your voice.”
“How can you tell?”
“Just watch that monitor. The transducer measures his heart rate and blood pressure. Sometimes I see a change when I’m talking to him.” She started to leave, then paused at the door. “Did you…find what you were looking for?”
He shook his head, and she left the room.
He felt that familiar tightness in his chest every time he walked close to Brian. He opened his mouth, closed it again. Looked at the monitor. He wasn’t sure what he should feel. The golden boy was as pale as the sheets and blankets that covered his body. He looked like a robot, with all the tubes and wires and monitors. His eyes were taped over so they wouldn’t dry out. An endotracheal tube ran through his vocal cords and down his throat to assist his breathing. His white teeth weren’t showing in the cocky grin Christopher remembered. What did he say to a man he hadn’t spoken with in years? This man who wasn’t anything like the brother he had known?
On the surface, he had seemed a man with it all: handsome, polite and friendly, well off. But something had happened, slowly, according to those who knew him best. He had retreated from the society he had once thrived in.
Christopher wanted to know why…and how Rita Brooks fit into it.
She watched Christopher LaPorte standing by Brian’s bedside. He’d gone to Boston. He’d probably talked to Rita Brooks. Damn. If only that last email had been intercepted like the rest…if Rita had died in the accident. So many ifs. So far Christopher had accepted the attempted suicide theory. For his sake, she hoped nothing changed.
She’d been considering whether to return to Boston and finish Rita off but hadn’t wanted to leave Brian for too long in case he started to come around. So far, Rita hadn’t been a threat. If she came here…if she came, well, then everything would change. And Rita would have to die.
Rita forsook her comforting evening routine of immersing herself in Supernatural, Angel reruns, and the latest un-reality show, as she called them. Her reality was much more bizarre. First she searched the Internet for a news story about Brian’s fall. Though she found the New Orleans’ papers on-line, the articles weren’t accessible. Then she’d done a search on comas and spent four hours reading documented stories of recovered coma patients with memories of a different plane of existence. These people weren’t nuts. They were respected professionals who had experienced something incredible and strange.
No matter how unreal it all seemed, she couldn’t ignore the facts, and those facts screamed that Brian had tried to find her for a reason. Maybe people’s souls went somewhere while they were in a coma. The gray place. Maybe all those people she’d seen were also in comas. But while no one else was making any contact, he had sought her out. It was important. She closed her eyes and remembered how he’d squeezed her shoulders and stared into her eyes.
What did you tell me, Brian?
He found her. Put his hands on her shoulders. Her body seized as a barrage of images flooded her mind: the flash of a long knife blade, blood, everything so fast she couldn’t pick much more out. She could feel them, each image attached with an emotion: regret, forgiveness, sorrow…fear. This time she was able to cling to the last image. Fear pounded through her and made her hands clammy. She tried to call back the image. A dark night. A gold mask with black feathers highlighting green eyes. A physical struggle. Then the sensation of falling.
She slapped her hand to her chest, her eyes wide. If this connection was real, if that was Brian LaPorte, if she could believe any of it…
“He didn’t jump. Someone pushed him. That’s why he found me.”
Brian must know that everyone thought he’d jumped, probably because his loved ones held his hand and asked him why. Their voices pulled him from the gray place just as Marty’s voice had pulled her. So he’d found her and showed her these images.
Something kept niggling at her. She recalled the images again, trying to hold onto them frame by frame. They were as slippery as mercury. What was it that bothered her even more than the figure pushing Brian off the roof?
The mask.
She felt chilled as she pictured it: gold mask, black feathers, green eyes. She’d seen it before, she was sure of it. She closed her eyes, willing her brain to remember. The mask, the mask. Where had she seen it?
Her brain wouldn’t supply the answer. She leaned forward and rubbed her forehead. Brian had sought her out in another plane of existence. Did she believe that?
“Yes. I don’t know.”
That’s why she needed to go to New Orleans and see him for herself. If he was the man she’d seen while in a coma, then she would go to the police and convince them to investigate his fall.
Her heart was hammering now at the prospect, but she had no choice. Because if Brian was pushed, that meant someone had tried to kill him. Which also meant that someone might try to finish the job.
CHAPTER 4
Rita had two nights in New Orleans. After that every hotel room in or near town was booked as Mardi Gras celebration kicked into full gear. Joyce, her travel agent, suggested she wait until after Mardi Gras, but Rita couldn’t take the chance. Since making up her mind two nights ago, she felt an urgency she couldn’t describe. Joyce had pulled some strings and a chunk of Rita’s bank account and gotten her the last seat on a Thursday afternoon flight.
Sandwiched between a young woman and a middle-aged man on the Atlanta-New Orleans leg of the flight, Rita spent her time sketching the mask. Finally, she put away the pad and tried not to think about it for a while. The hum of the engines lulled her into a half-sleep state where images of the last few weeks scrolled across the movie screen of her mind.
She saw scenes from purgatory, the gray place, and her mother sitting next to her at the hospital. Officer Potter’s voice echoed in her mind: The other vehicle came up beside you as though he were going to pass but then slammed into the side of your car. The scene sprang into her mind.
A black SUV coming up beside her on wet roads. An idiot in a big hurry to pass her. But no, he didn’t want to pass her. He slammed into her car. She fought with the wheel. Why was he doing this? She looked his way for a second. In that second, she saw light reflecting off the gold of a mask and a spray of feathers.
“No, it can’t be. Can’t…”
As soon as she disembarked, she pulled out her cell phone and called Potter. Once she had him on the line, she introduced herself. “Any news on the case?” The last she knew, the police hadn’t been able to connect the teens to her accident. When he gave her the expected negative answer, she said, “I may have remembered something from the accident. Was the vehicle that hit me a black SUV?”
“Yes, I believe a black Ford Explorer, but I’d have to check.”
“I think there was only one person in the car. He did try to run me off the road. It was definitely intentional. And there’s something else. He was wearing a mask.”
“A mask? Like a Ronald Reagan mask? Ski mask?”
“No, this one was gold and had black feathers.” The masks were blurring in her mind now. She wasn’t sure if the one she pictured was from the accident or the one she’d seen while in a coma.
“Like a Mardi Gras mask, you mean?”
“Yes.” Mardi Gras. New Orleans. “That’s exactly the kind. Did you find anything in the SUV?”
“I’d have to look at the full report, though I know off-hand we found nothing useful. The owner of the vehicle has three children, so we found a lot of hairs, threads, toys…you name it, it was in there.”
“How about a feather?”
“I’ll have to check on that.”
She gave him her cell number.
“Is there anything else?” he asked, sensing the hesitation in her voice probably.
“Uh…no. Nothing I’m sure about. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything solid.”
Like that this same person had tried to kill a friend of hers in New Orleans. Then it hit her: He tried to kill me, too. She could hardly choke out the word goodbye. It took her five minutes to catch her breath as she made her way to baggage claim. She rubbed her sweaty palms over the soft fabric of her pants. Her matching blue shoes peeked out from beneath her cuffs. Keep it together. Brian needs you. That’s why he came to you.
The revelers had already been revving up on the plane, wearing their shiny beads and throwing back shots with smuggled liquor. They made imaginary toasts to each other at the baggage claim, strangers united in the spirit of celebration. Why did it have to be Mardi Gras, where fantasy and reality twisted together, where good became evil, and evil masqueraded as good?
Evil. She was already searching the people around her, thinking of the evil that had brought her here. She didn’t even know if the person behind the mask was man or woman, how old, or more importantly, the reason behind two attempted murders. She had been a target hundreds of miles away in Boston. The distance hadn’t been enough to keep her out of harm’s way. Now she was here, where surely the evil originated. Where she could trust no one.
The buzzer jarred her out of her fearful misery, signaling the arrival of their bags. After grabbing her luggage, she registered for her rental car and walked outside to the curb where a bus took her and thirty others to their waiting cars. Dusk cloaked the town in a blanket of darkening gray. Even the city’s lights didn’t lift the ominous sense of bleakness. The chill in the air didn’t have the bite that Boston’s had, and there weren’t clumps of dirty snow pushed to the corners of parking lots. Still, it felt colder, chilling her through her heavy wool coat.