Bloodlust

Chapter 15

His tone and the glint in his eyes were alarming to Dylan. “Mitch, you can’t undertake a vigilante retaliation against men who you assume caused Angela’s death. Violence is not a problem solver.”

“Oh, I think violent retaliation would fix me right up.” He leaned back against the booth, his expression unyielding. “Do you know how she died? Did John tell you?”

Dylan glanced around. The café had filled since their arrival. There was a lot of bustle, laughter, and noisy conversation, the clatter of dishes and flatware. Lively zydeco music played through scratchy speakers.

Coming back to Mitch, she asked, “Are you sure you want to talk about this now?”

“By all means,” he said, making a grand gesture. “I want to get it over with.”

She thought about trying to talk him down, but in his present state she feared causing a scene.

Besides, she’d been encouraging him to talk about this.

The setting was far from ideal, but he had chosen to continue, so she went with it, afraid that it might be her only opportunity to get to the root of the pain he suffered.

Quietly, she said, “In answer to your question, yes. Bowie told me that you came home one night later than usual because you and he were working on a case. You found Angela inside her car, with the motor running, in a closed garage.”

“An obvious asphyxiation suicide.”

“Bowie didn’t say that. He said the coroner pronounced it death by suicide and that the medical examiner bore that out.”

He snorted with bitterness. “They actually believe that Angela committed suicide with Andrew asleep in his crib upstairs.”

Dylan didn’t respond.

“Did John tell you that she was on medication for post-partum?”

That came as a mild shock. “No, he didn’t.”

“She was. Which, of course, added fodder to the suicide theory.”

“Was her postpartum severe?”

“No, but it was real. She had been a clerk in a law firm, a job she loved. She had worked right up until Andrew was born and was having difficulty adjusting to her new job, which was stay-at-home and around the clock.

“She readily acknowledged that she needed help, and we got it. She was prescribed medication, and had almost weaned herself off it. She was on the upswing.”

Dylan hesitated before saying, “Maybe that’s what she wanted you to believe.”

He leaned forward again, elbows on the table, but instead of praying hands at his forehead, he clasped his hands tightly and tapped the double fist on the table to emphasize each word. “She did not kill herself.”

“Tell me why you don’t think so.”

“I don’t think, I know she didn’t. How do I know? Because she was so devout in her faith. Suicide is a mortal sin, an unforgivable transgression. For her own salvation, Angela Kathleen Duvall Haskell wouldn’t have taken her own life.

“And even if she’d wanted to, she wouldn’t have been that selfish. To leave Mary and Hank believing that she’d died unshriven? Never. To leave Andrew motherless? No. Hell no. She loved him too much to have…”

He stopped, looked down at his clasped hands, squeezed them tighter, then opened them slowly, seeming to force them to relax.

“She never would have abandoned our baby. Never. And with all my heart, I don’t believe she would have condemned me to speculating every day for the rest of my life on why, why, why? She would not have done that.”

Dylan knew he believed with every fiber of his being everything that he’d said. The rawness of his emotion made it impossible for her to remain entirely objective. Her heart was breaking for him. “What do you believe actually happened that night?”

“Thank you for asking. Most people don’t, you know?

They take that suicide scene at face value.

I didn’t and never will. I’m certain her murder was staged to look like a suicide, but I have absolutely no evidence to back up that assertion, which is why it was dismissed by everybody.

Friends and relatives. The authorities. Everybody.

I looked like the raving, grieving widower who couldn’t accept that his wife chose death over living with him. ”

“John Bowie?”

“No, no,” he said, giving his head an adamant shake. “John knew Angela very well. He knew the strength of her faith. Beth, too. They took my part. He helped me in trying to prove she’d been murdered.

“He and I went over our house with a fine-tooth comb, several times, looking for any scrap of evidence that someone else had been there that night. We found nothing. No sign of forced entry. Nothing stolen. No fingerprints, no fibers, nothing.

“The other thing was that Angela didn’t have a mark on her. No bruises or blood. No sign that she’d struggled. And Andrew had been left untouched. Which was a miracle, and like all miracles, I couldn’t explain it.”

He furrowed his brow. “I still can’t. All I know is that Angela wouldn’t have gotten into the car and started it voluntarily. Somebody compelled her to do it by threatening her that if she didn’t, the consequence would be a thousand times worse. Something unspeakable, unthinkable. Anathema.”

Dylan thought through all that. Assuming that he was right, and someone had come into the house and forced Angela to do something as heinous as to stage a suicide, why would he, or they, have spared the baby? She put the question to him.

He shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t know Andrew was in the house.”

“Maybe it was a mercy.”

His lips tightened. “If it was, it won’t be taken into account when I get my hands on the son of a bitch.”

She didn’t doubt that at all. Mitch Haskell was fresh out of mercy. “Monday night…” Then she drew herself up with a sudden realization. “That was only two nights ago.”

“When I busted in on you? Yeah, night before last.”

“Seems so much longer.”

It seemed longer because recollections of those few forbidden moments when he’d been holding her wrist hadn’t left her alone.

Such a seemingly innocent action had created memorable sensations.

Remembrances of them had taunted and tantalized her throughout her workday and when she was idle and alone.

They were ever-present, there even when she slept, there when she woke up.

And now, despite the surrounding noisiness and commotion, she was reliving those moments when he’d felt her pulse, and his whisper had been a warm breath wafting across her face, and he was looking into her eyes. His had been hot and avid.

Just as they were now. “Seems longer to me, too, Dylan.”

That statement, spoken in a rough undertone, made it very difficult for her to force herself back into the present and the serious subject that had to be dealt with delicately. She took a sip of tea before picking up where she’d left off.

“As you were leaving Monday night, you told me that you believe two men were responsible for Angela’s death.”

He nodded.

“What motive would they have had?”

“To destroy me.”

“Why?”

“Retribution.”

“Then why didn’t they kill you?”

“I’ve thought on that a lot and have come to the conclusion that they considered death too lenient a punishment.

Even if they’d tortured me first, death would have been a welcome reprieve.

No, they wanted to hurt me in the worst possible way.

They wanted my suffering to last for a long time. So far, they’ve succeeded.”

“Why such harsh retribution? What had you done to them?”

He was about to speak, but caught himself. “You can’t disclose anything about your patients, right? Unless you’ve softened your policy on that.”

“I haven’t.”

“I didn’t think so. In the same way, I can’t talk about ongoing investigations.”

“Is the investigation into Angela’s death ongoing?”

“For me it is.”

“I understand your desire for answers, Mitch. I do. I only hope your quest for them doesn’t cause even greater damage. Please keep that in mind.”

“I will.”

She gave him a rueful smile. “I doubt it.”

He moved his tea glass aside and leaned farther across the table. “Tell me. Am I your most challenging patient to date?”

“You’re certainly in the running.”

He snickered. “Good. I don’t want to be mediocre.” He grinned, and she smiled back, but with seriousness, he said, “Thanks for agreeing to seeing me. As hard as it was to talk so openly about all that, I guess I did need to air some things.”

“I hope I helped.”

“Actually,” he said, speaking low, “you’ve made my situation a lot more complicated.”

“In what way?”

He gave her a slow once-over, his gaze lighting on her lips, in the vicinity of her breasts, and, when his eyes reconnected with hers, he said, “I think you know.”

She could withstand his laser-blue stare only so long before lowering her head. She wasn’t aware that the waitress had returned until she said, “Y’all had time to consider?”

Dylan hastily replied, “Oh, we’re not eating.”

Just as Mitch said, “What would you like?”

The waitress harrumphed. “Wasn’t referring to the menu choices.” Looking back and forth between them, she asked, “Which is it, awkward first date or a breakup?”

“Awkward first date,” Mitch said.

“It’s not a date,” Dylan stressed.

Mitch said to the waitress, “We’re only here because she didn’t want to be alone with me.”

“How come?”

“I can’t figure it.” He made a show of scratching his head. “I’m devilishly handsome. I have a good personality, and I’m a stickler for dental hygiene. I keep myself fit.” He patted his abs. “Why do you think?”

The waitress said, “’Cause you’re a smart-ass.”

He laughed, then the waitress laughed, then Dylan couldn’t help herself.

She joined in. But she insisted that they were leaving.

They settled with the waitress by each of them giving her a ten for renting them the table.

As Mitch handed her his share, he asked why the logo crawfish was blue instead of red.

“I’ve always wondered that myself but never took the trouble to ask.” She looked at Dylan and grinned. “He might be worth a second date.”

Outside, the air was soft and humid, but there was a breeze light enough to be comfortable, yet strong enough to discourage mosquitoes. A half moon was rising. Venus shone brightly. As they walked side by side toward their cars, Mitch reached for her hand.

She tried to take it back. “What are you doing?”

“Just seems like a time to hold hands.”

“You and I can’t hold hands.”

“Okay.” He let go of her hand, then hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her beneath the eaves of the building. “How about this?”

He drew her close and nuzzled her behind the ear, even as he reached back and removed the band from around her ponytail, freeing her hair to fall past her shoulders front and back. His breath fanned her ear, causing her tummy to rise and fall like a bouncing balloon.

“Mitch.” She pushed against his chest and had the fleeting thought: I wonder where his tats are? The exotic possibilities that came to mind shamed her, but inflamed her imagination. “Please stop this,” she said, unsure if she was addressing him or herself.

In any case, he complied. He drew up straight and angled back, but didn’t say anything, just looked at her, his eyes roving over her face, across her collarbone, down into the V-neck of her T-shirt. The view it offered made him smile.

“Mitch.”

He brought his eyes back up to hers. “Hmm?”

“Listen,” she said sternly.

“Listening.”

“This is…” She sawed her hand back and forth between them. “What you’re doing is a classic psychological phenomenon. Transference. That’s what it’s called.”

“I’ve never heard it called that. I’ve heard it called necking, smooching, pitching woo, making whoopee, making out—”

“Will you stop with the joking, please?”

“—mugging, foreplay, kissing, French kissing.”

“We weren’t kissing.”

“Not yet.” He cupped her face between his hands and planted his lips firmly against hers. And then less firmly. Then tenderly. And when he slanted them across hers, hers parted. “Mitch,” she sighed.

“Hmm?”

Whatever she had intended to say was never said.

He slid his tongue between her lips. It flirted with hers until she realized she was seeking his, inviting it deeper into her mouth.

Without breaking contact, he tilted his head, found a better angle, and each sank into the kiss, which was definitely French.

His hand on her cheek moved to the back of her head, his fingers threading through her hair. His other hand slipped inside her jacket and settled on her waist, urging her closer until they were bumping middles.

Then the bumping stopped, and after one slight adjustment they stayed in place, fitted together so perfectly that he made a growling sound, pressed more firmly into the complementing depression, and lowered his hand from her waist to her bottom.

Although she was lost in the deliciousness of the kiss and the pleasure spreading from where they were snugly joined, the squeeze of his fingers against the seat of her jeans brought her back to reality. She jerked herself away from him and stumbled back a step.

She stared at him in dismay. By reflex, she reached up and touched her lips.

They were damp with the taste of him—the marvelous taste of him—verifying how ardent his kiss had been, how fervently she’d kissed him back, and affirming how badly she wanted him to kiss her more, to touch her, to touch her everywhere, every part of her that was feverish and achy and yearning, and not to stop touching.

All that she desired from him in that moment was mistimed, misplaced, and so, so wrong.

She drew a swift but deep breath, then let it out on a whimper, “Oh, God.”

He spoke her name as a plea and reached for her.

She backed away from his extended hand, gave a hard shake of her head, turned away from him, and ran to her car.