Sanctuary

Chapter Twenty-One #2

“No.” He let out a sigh and sat beside her. “No, you don’t have to go over it again. I guess you’d have told me before if the lot of us weren’t so screwed up. I’ve been thinking about that while I’ve been sitting out here working myself up to pound on you.”

“Couldn’t have taken much. You were already mad at me. Kicked me out of the house.”

He let out a quick, rough laugh. “Your own fault you let me. It’s your house too.”

“It’s your house, Brian. It always has been more yours than anyone’s.” It was said gently, with quiet acceptance. “You’re the one who cares most, and tends most.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No. Well, maybe some, but mostly it’s a relief to me. I don’t have to worry if the roof’s going to leak, because you do.”

She tipped her head back, looking up at the glossy white paint of the veranda, then out over the moonlight-sprinkled gardens. The wind chimes were tinkling, the fountain quiet for the night, and the scent of musk roses floated poignantly on the breeze.

“I don’t want to live here. For a long time I thought I didn’t ever want to be here.

But I was wrong. I do. Everything here means more to me than I let myself believe.

I want to know I can come back now and then.

I can sit here on a warm, clear night like this and smell the sweet peas and the jasmine and Mama’s roses.

Lexy and me, we just can’t stay here the way you do.

But I guess we both need to know that Sanctuary stands on the hill like always and nobody’s going to lock the door on us. ”

“No one would.”

“I dreamed the doors were locked and I couldn’t get inside.

No one came when I called, and all the windows were dark and empty.

” She closed her eyes, wanting it to play back in her mind, wanting to know she could stand against it now.

“I lost myself in the forest. I was alone and scared and couldn’t find my way.

Then I saw myself standing on the other side of the river. Only it wasn’t me at all. It was Mama.”

“You’ve always had strange dreams.”

“Maybe I’ve always been crazy.” She smiled a little, then looked out into the night.

“I look like her, Brian. Sometimes when I see my face in the mirror, it gives me such a jolt. In the end, that’s what pushed me over the edge.

When those pictures came, all those pictures of me.

I thought one of them was Mama. Only she was dead.

She was naked and her eyes were open and staring and lifeless as a doll’s. I looked just like her.”

“Jo—”

“But the picture wasn’t there,” she said quickly. “It wasn’t even there. I imagined it. I’ve always hated seeing pictures of myself, because I see her in them.”

“You may look like her, Jo, but you’re not like her. You finish what you start, you stick.”

“I ran away from here.”

“You got away from here,” he corrected. “You went out to make your own life. That’s different from leaving a life you’d already started and all the people who needed you.

You’re not Annabelle.” He draped an arm over her shoulder and let the swing slide into motion.

“And you’re only about as crazy as the rest of us around here. ”

She laughed. “Well, that’s comforting, isn’t it?”

* * *

IT was late when Susan Peters marched out of the rented cottage and stalked toward the cove. She’d had a nasty fight with her husband— and had had to do it in undertones so as not to disturb their friends who’d taken the cottage with them for the week.

The man was an idiot, she decided. She couldn’t even think why she’d married him, much less why she’d stayed married to him for three years—not to mention the two they’d lived together before making it legal.

Every time, every single time, she so much as mentioned buying a house, he got that closed-in look on his face.

And he started going on about down payments and taxes and maintenance and money, money, money.

What the hell were both of them working their butts off for?

Was she supposed to live in an apartment in Atlanta forever?

The hell with the conveniences, she thought, and tossed back her curly mop of brown hair. She wanted a yard, a little garden, a kitchen where she could practice cooking the gourmet dishes she’d taken classes for.

But all she got out of Tom was one day. One day. Well, when was one day going to get here?

Disgusted, she plopped down on the beach, slipping off her shoes so she could dig her toes in the sand while she stared out at the quiet water that lapped and lapped against the hull of the little outboard they’d rented.

He didn’t have any problems spending money on a silly boat so he could go fishing every stupid day they were on Desire.

They had enough for a down payment. She propped her elbow on her knee and watched sulkily as the moon floated overhead. She’d done all the research on financing and balloon payments and interest rates. She wanted that sweet little house on Peach Blossom Lane.

Sure, it would be tight for the first couple of years, but they could manage. She’d been so positive that when she talked to him about building equity and breaking out of the endless cycle of renting month after month, he would come around.

And, oh, it was just about killing her that Mary Alice and Jim were about to settle on that pretty place in the development. A magnolia tree in the front yard and a little patio off the kitchen.

She sighed and wished she’d waited until they’d gotten back home to start working on Tom again. That would have been smarter. She knew how important timing was when dealing with her husband. But she’d gotten so damned upset, she hadn’t been able to stop herself.

When they got back to Atlanta, Tom was going to look at that house on Peach Blossom if she had to drag him by the ear.

She heard the footsteps behind her and stared straight ahead. “No point in coming down here to try to make up, Tom Peters. I’m not nearly finished being mad at you yet. I may never be.”

Furious that he didn’t attempt to talk her out of it, she wrapped her arms around her knees. “You just go on back up and balance your checkbook, since money is all you want. I don’t have another thing to say to you.”

As the silence dragged on, she gritted her teeth and turned her head. “Listen here, Tom—Oh.” Embarrassment heated her cheeks as she looked up into a stranger’s face. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

He smiled, charmingly, and with a gleam of laughter in his eyes. “That’s all right. I’m going to think of you as someone else, too.”

Even as the first streak of alarm sent a scream toward her throat, he struck.

It wasn’t going to be perfect, he decided, studying her as she lay crumpled at his feet. He hadn’t planned on this impromptu practice session, but he hadn’t been able to sleep. His mind was so full of Jo, and the sexual need was unexpectedly sharp tonight.

He was very, very annoyed with her. And that only made him want her more.

Then the pretty brunette had just been there, like a gift, sitting all alone by the water under the shifting light of the moon.

A wise man didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. So to speak, he thought with a chuckle as he hauled her up into his arms. They would just move off a bit, he decided. In case old Tom—whoever he might be—wandered down to the cove.

She was a light load, and he didn’t mind the exercise.

He whistled tunelessly as he carried her over the sand and up through a narrow break in the dunes.

He would need the moonlight, so he settled on the verges of the swale.

It was picturesque, with the moon-silvered bushes, he thought, as he laid her down.

And it was deserted.

He used his belt to tie her hands and one of the silk scarves he always carried to gag her. He stripped her first, pleased to find that her body was trim and athletic. She moaned a little as he pulled off his jeans.

“Don’t worry, darling, you look very pretty, very sexy. And the moonlight flatters you.”

He took out his camera—the Pentax single-lens reflex he liked for portraits—pleased that he’d loaded it with slow film. He wanted fine detail now, knife-edged sharpness. Likely he’d have to do some burning in and dodging in the darkroom to get the contrasts and textures just so.

He would look forward to that, to perfecting the prints.

Whistling under his breath, he fixed his flash and ran off three shots before her eyelids fluttered.

“That’s right, that’s right, I want you to come around now. Slow. A few nice close-ups of that pretty face. The eyes are the best. They always are.”

He grew hard as they opened, dulled with pain and confusion. “Beautiful, just beautiful. Look here, look right here now. That’s the way, baby. Focus.”

Delighted, he captured understanding and fear. He set the camera down as she began to stir. Her movement would blur the shot, and he didn’t have any backup film of faster speed. Still smiling, he picked up the gun he’d laid on his neatly folded jeans. And showed it to her.

“Now, I don’t want you to move. I want you to stay still, really still, and do everything I tell you. The last thing I want to do is use this. Now you understand that, don’t you?”

Tears began to swim in her eyes, then leak out. But she nodded. Terror bubbled in her brain, and though she tried to remain motionless, shudders racked her.

“I’m just going to take your picture. We’re having a photo shoot. You’re not afraid of having your picture taken, a pretty woman like you.”

He exchanged gun for camera and smiled winningly. “Now here’s what I want you to do. Bend your knees. Come on now, that’s the way, and move them over to your left side. You’ve got a lovely body. Why don’t we show it off to its best advantage?”

She did what he asked, her eyes wheeling over to stare at the gun. The chrome glinted and shone. He just wanted pictures, she told herself, as her breath hitched and shuddered. He would leave her alone then. He’d go away. He wouldn’t hurt her.

Terror bulged in her eyes, turned her skin milky white and had him throbbing viciously. His hands began to tremble, signaling him that he could no longer wait for the next stage.

His heart thudded in his head as he carefully set his camera down on his shirt. Very gently he put a hand on her throat and looked deeply into her eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “And you’re helpless. You know that, don’t you? There’s nothing you can do. I’m in control. I have all the power. Don’t I?”

She jerked her head down in a nod, small sobs muffling against the silk. When his hand closed over her breast and squeezed, she moaned out pleas and tossed her head wildly. Her heels dug into the sand as she tried to escape.

He straddled her. “It won’t do you any good.” He shuddered as she bucked and twisted under him. “The more fight you put up, the better I like it. Try to scream.” He squeezed her breasts again, then bent down to bite at them. “Scream, goddamn it. Scream.”

A harsh keening sound ripped out of her, burned her throat. Desperate, she fought against the gag, struggled to use her teeth, her tongue, her lips to drag it aside.

He pried her thighs apart, deliberately bruising the flesh. And thought of Jo as he raped her. Thought of Jo Ellen’s long legs. Jo Ellen’s sexy mouth. Jo Ellen’s heavy-lidded blue eyes, while he pounded himself with sweaty violence into her substitute.

The orgasm was towering, brought tears of surprise and triumph to his eyes. So much better than the last one, he realized, and absently closed a hand over her throat, pressing down only until she stopped fighting.

He’d chosen well this time, he thought, as the climax eased off into sweetness. He’d found his practice angel. The breeze cooled his damp skin when he rose for the camera.

He remembered how the process had been outlined in his journal and reminded himself not merely to duplicate but to improve.

“I may rape you again, I may not.” He smiled, attractive creases forming around his mouth and eyes. “I may hurt you, I may not. It all depends on how you behave. Now you just lie there, angel, and think about that.”

Satisfied that she was quiescent for a while, he changed lenses. Her pupils were enormous black moons with only a sliver of pale brown encircling them, her breathing was short and shallow. He whistled contentedly as he loaded fresh film. He shot the entire roll before he raped her a second time.

And he’d decided to hurt her. After all, the choice, the mood, the control were all completely in his hands.

She stopped fighting him. In all but a physical sense she’d stopped being there. Her body was numb, belonged to someone else. In her mind she was safe, with Tom, sitting together on the patio of their pretty new house on Peach Blossom Lane.

She barely felt him remove the gag. She managed a quiet sob, made a pitiful effort to draw in breath enough to scream.

“You know it’s too late for that.” He said it gently, almost lovingly, as he wound the scarf around her throat. “You’ll be my angel now.”

He tightened the scarf, slowly, wanting to draw out the moment. He watched her mouth open, struggle to suck in air. Her heels drummed on the sand, her body jerked.

His breath became labored, the power flooding him, screaming in his head, racing through his blood.

He lost track of the times he stopped, let her claw back to consciousness before he took her to the brink again.

He would rise, aim the camera again. Not just one decisive moment, he thought.

But many. The fear of death, the acceptance, the flicker of hope as life pumped back.

The surrender when it blinked out again.

Oh, he regretted the lack of a tripod and remote.

Finally his system roared past control and he finished it.

Gasping, he murmured endearments, kissed her gratefully. She had shown him a new level, this unexpected angel that fate had tossed at his feet. It had been meant to be, of course. He understood that now. He’d had more to learn before he met his destiny with Jo. So much more to learn.

He removed the scarf, folded it, and laid it reverently over the gun. He took time to pose her, adjusting her hands after he’d freed them. The welts on the wrists troubled him a little until he slid her hands under her head like a pillow.

He thought he would title this one Gift of an Angel.

He dressed, then bundled her clothes. The marsh was too far, he decided. Whatever the gators and other predators had left of Ginny was buried deep there. He didn’t have time for the hike, or energy for the labor.

There were conveniently deep spots in the river, however, and that would do well enough. He would take her to her final resting place, weigh her body down so that it would rest on the slippery bottom.

And then, he decided with a wide yawn, he’d call it a night.