Hot Blooded

  "You've got that right."

  Rubbing the back of his neck anxiously, Tiny added, "I'd better go down and wait for the cops." He grabbed his jacket and backpack, was searching for his pack of Camels as he walked out the door.

  "What now?" Melanie asked.

  "We wait. For the police."

  "I know, but I don't think they can do anything."

  Sam wasn't going there, wasn't going to give in to her own thoughts that John would somehow escape being found out and apprehended by the police. "Let's just hope they catch this guy and soon."

  "And if they don't?" Melanie asked.

  Sam didn't answer. Didn't want to think about it, but the caller's threats echoed through her mind as surely as if he was whispering in her ear.

  The wages of sin are death, and you're gonna die. You're gonna die soon.

  He was sweating.

  His blood pounding, the heat of the night heavy and damp.

  The conversation burning through his brain as he walked briskly from the phone booth along St. Charles Avenue. Through parked cars he jaywalked, crossing the streetcar rails and hurrying past the universities—Tulane and Loyola, side by side, brick-and-stone structures that appeared in the dim light of the security lamps as fortresses, castles built in honor of almighty academia. His skin prickled as he glanced at the buildings. He could smell the sweet seductive scent of young minds. Just as his had once been.

  College.

  Philosophy.

  Religion.

  Where he had learned the truth; where he had understood his mission. Where it had all begun.

  Oh, his mentor would be proud.

  A few students wandered the great expanse of lawn talking, laughing, smoking, probably getting high. Warm light glowed from some of the windows, but he barely noticed as he ducked through the shadows, half-running, his heart pounding, her words ricocheting like hot bullets through his brain.

  Why are you threatening me, John? What did I ever do to you?

  She didn't remember.

  Didn't recall the horror that had changed his life—ruined it.

  Rage screamed through his blood, and he broke into a jog, running faster toward the heart of the city, toward the siren song of Bourbon Street, where he could blend into the crowd that forever walked the city streets, where he could hide in the throng and yet be nearer to her.

  What did I ever do to you?

  Soon she'd know.

  Soon she'd understand.

  It would be her last thought before she died.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "… if you think of anything else, let us know," one of the two officers who took Sam's statement said, as he and his partner left the kitchen of WSLJ, where Sam, Melanie and Tiny had given their statements. Tiny had been in and out of the reception area, checking the prerecorded program, making sure that everything was running smoothly.

  "God, I'm glad that's over." Melanie grabbed her purse and briefcase. "What a marathon."

  "They're just being thorough."

  "Think they'll catch anyone?" Tiny asked as he rummaged in the cupboards, found a bag of popcorn and set it inside the microwave.

  "I can only hope," Sam said around a yawn. Bone-tired, she didn't want to think about either of the callers for the rest of the night. It was nearly three in the morning. All she wanted to do was drive home, fall into bed and close out the world. Her head was beginning to ache, her ankle starting to throb.

  "I think that popcorn belongs to Gator," Melanie said, as Tiny pushed the timer.

  "He'll never miss it. Are you guys all right to walk out of here alone?"

  "We'll manage," Sam said dryly. She couldn't imagine Tiny as any kind of a protector. "Come on, let's go, Melanie." She gathered her things and the popcorn kernels started exploding over the hum of the microwave. The smell of butter filled the kitchen as she and Melanie made their way downstairs and outside the building.

  Ty was waiting for her. Parked illegally in front of the station at three in the morning, he leaned one jean-clad hip against the fender of his Volvo and stared at the door of the building as Sam and Melanie stepped into the warm summer night. His arms were folded over his chest, and even in the watery light from the streetlamp she noticed his jaw was dark with a couple days' worth of beard. He was dressed in a T-shirt, jeans and leather jacket. Reminiscent of an older, more jaded James Dean. Great, she thought sarcastically. Just what I need. And yet a tiny thrill of anticipation swept through her.

  The smell of the river was close, the air heavy, the sound of a lonesome saxophone echoing over the quiet hum of what little traffic there was, and a man who had been a stranger little more than a week before was waiting for her.

  Ty pushed himself off the car. "I thought I'd come down and see that you were okay."

  "I'm fine. Just dead on my feet," she said, but couldn't help feeling a little glow of warmth for him.

  To Melanie, he said, "Ty Wheeler. I'm Sam's neighbor."

  Sam belatedly found her manners as a car cruised past. Through the open window the sound of heavy bass thrummed from huge speakers. "Oh, right, Ty, this is Melanie Davis, my assistant, Melanie, Ty. He's a writer who owns an old dog and buys broken-down sailboats."

  Melanie gave him a quick once-over and offered a curious, friendly smile. "A writer? Like a journalist?"

  "Nothing so noble, I'm afraid," he drawled. "Novels. Fiction."

  "Really?" Melanie was impressed. "You're published?"

  Ty's smile flashed white in the darkness. "Hopin' to be."

  "What's your book about?"

  "Kind of a Horse Whisperer meets The Silence of the Lambs. It's got a farm theme running through it."

  "Give me a break," Sam said, and Melanie chuckled.

  "Actually, I thought I'd come down and see that you"— he touched Sam on the elbow—"were all right."

  "Right as rain," she lied.

  His fingers tightened before he dropped his hand and again she felt that ridiculous little glow. "So where's the car?"

  "About two blocks over." Despite all her talk about feminism and being a strong single woman, she was more at ease having Ty with them and rationalized that it wasn't necessarily because he was a man, but that there was greater safety in numbers.

  "You're the Ty who called in earlier tonight," Melanie guessed, and Sam could almost see the wheels turning in her assistant's mind as she remembered Ty's questions about pushing a relationship to another level. "Oh… I get it." Her eyes twinkled in the weak light.

  "Yep. I did call in," he admitted. "Didn't like what I was hearing on the airwaves, so I phoned the station to change the tone of things. After I hung up, I decided maybe Samantha would like a ride home. When I got here I saw the police car."

  Melanie didn't comment, just lifted a curious eyebrow as if trying to get a bead on Ty's connection to Sam.

  "I think I'd better drive," Sam said. "I don't want to leave my car here and then not have a way into the city tomorrow."

  "I'd drive you," he offered, but Sam didn't want to bother him, nor be dependent.

  "And I'd feel better having my own wheels."

  "Whatever you want." He shrugged. "But I'll walk you to your car and you can drive me back to mine."

  "You really don't have to," Sam said, but Melanie had different ideas.

  "Hey, he came all the way down here in the middle of the night to see that you were safe. Give the guy a break. Let him walk you—us." She sounded almost envious, and Sam wondered where her boyfriend was, the one she never talked about. Maybe they'd broken up. It certainly wouldn't be the first time Melanie had fallen head over heels in love only to change her mind a few weeks later.

  "I'd feel better about it," Ty said, as he fell into step with them. "As I said, I was listening to the program and caught that weird call. From Annie—whoever she was. It freaked you out."

  "That wasn't the half of it." Though Sam would have preferred to tell Ty about "John's" call later, at another time, Melanie was fairly burst
ing at the news and couldn't hold her tongue. As they passed the wrought-iron fence encircling the thick shrubs of Jackson Square, Melanie eagerly explained that "John" had phoned the station once Sam had signed off.

  "So he'd rather talk to you alone," Ty said solemnly as they crossed in front of St. Louis Cathedral. Lamplight splashed against the white facade. Three sharp spires knifed into the blackness of the night sky, reaching upward to heaven, the cross atop the highest steeple barely visible as it pierced the inky heavens. "What does he want?"

  "Retribution," Melanie said.

  "For what?" Ty's jaw tightened.

  Sam shook her head. "I don't know."

  "Your sins." Melanie was reaching into her purse, jingling coins as she searched for her keys. "He's always talking about your sins. It's like he's some… priest or something." They reached the parking structure just as Melanie extracted her key ring. A dozen keys jangled. "I'm here on the first floor." Unerringly she zeroed in on her little hatchback and unlocked the door. "Want a ride up?" she asked.

  "I'm just on two." Sam didn't need her assistant acting as if she were a wimp, and said sarcastically, "I think I can make it."

  "I'll walk her," Ty added, and though a part of Samantha still wasn't sure about her new neighbor, she really didn't think he would do her any harm. He'd had plenty of opportunities when they were alone and no one had known they were together; it seemed unlikely, even if he was the caller, which she doubted, that he would risk attacking or kidnapping her when Melanie had seen them together. Besides, truth to tell, she felt safe with him… comfortable.

  "Fine."

  Melanie was in her car in seconds. She switched on her headlights and engine, then backed out of her spot. Waving with one hand, she honked her horn, and it echoed loudly as she tromped on the gas. The little car zoomed to the exit in a cloud of exhaust.

  "Flamboyant, isn't she?" Ty observed, as they took the stairs.

  "And melodramatic and extremely efficient."

  Sam's red Mustang was the only car parked on the second floor of the gloomy lot. Half of the security lamps were burned out, the few remaining concentrated around the elevator and stairs.

  "Right out of a Hitchcock movie," Ty said, his bootheels ringing on the dirty concrete.

  "That's a little overly dramatic, don't you think?"

  "I just hope you never walk here alone," Ty said, scowling.

  "Sometimes. But I'm careful."

  His gaze swept the empty spaces. "I don't like it."

  She bristled a bit. She hardly knew the guy. He didn't have to automatically step into the role of protector, or big brother or whatever. "I can handle myself." Oh, yeah, Sam, like you handled yourself when the woman claiming to be Annie phoned in. You lost it, Doctor. Big-time.

  "If you say so."

  "I've made it this far." She already had her handbag open and had found her keys—the duplicate set she'd had made since her trip to Mexico. "Look, I appreciate your concern. Really. It's… it's nice, but I'm a big girl. An adult."

  "Is that a nice way of saying 'get lost' "

  "No!" she said quickly. "I mean… I just don't want you to feel obligated somehow, or that you need to take care of me because I'm one of those pathetic, weak, porcelain-doll kinds of women."

  One side of his mouth lifted. "Believe me, that's the farthest thing from my mind."

  "Good. Just so we understand each other."

  "I think we do." He stepped closer, and she smelled the scent of his aftershave, saw the way his eyes had darkened with the night, noticed that he was staring at her lips. Oh, God, was he going to kiss her? Her skin tingled at the thought of it, her silly pulse kicked up a notch, and as he leaned closer she braced herself, only to feel his lips brush chastely against the side of her cheek. "Take care," he said, then stepped away as she unlocked the car door and swung it open.

  Her heart was pounding. Her mind leaping ahead to vibrant images of deeper kisses, of bodies touching, of skin rubbing against naked skin. She started to slide behind the wheel seat when she noticed the piece of paper… an envelope on the bucket seat. "What the devil—?" She picked it up, saw her name scrawled across the envelope and without thinking, slid out the card. "No," she whispered as she read the words.

  The inscription, Happy 25th Birthday had been circled in red, then slashed through the middle at an angle.

  Sam dropped the card as if it burned her fingers. She felt the blood drain from her face.

  "What is it?" Ty reached bent down and picked up the folded sheet. "Jesus, what—?" He opened it and saw a single word spelled out in red letters: MURDERER. "How did this get into the car?"

  "I—I don't know." Sam closed her eyes for a second. Remembered the horror that had happened in Houston, the girl who had killed herself. Her head pounded, and she sagged against the back fender.

  "Are you okay?" Ty's arm was around her shoulders. "This has something to do with the woman who claimed she was Annie. She said something about it being her birthday Thursday."

  "Yes. Annie Seger." Who would do such a thing? Why? It had been nine years. Nine years. She shivered inside. "I don't get it. Why is someone trying to terrorize me?"

  "And how did they get into your car. It was locked, right?"

  "Yes." She nodded.

  He looked over the window and door, pointed out the scratches on the paint. "Was this here before?"

  "No."

  "Looks like it was forced. Does anyone have a spare key?"

  "My extra key is at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean," she said shaking her head. "I lost the entire set when I was in Mexico."

  "So you only have the one key."

  "I had a duplicate made. It's in my drawer at home." Some of her fear was seeping away as she stared at the scratches on the door and realized Ty's arm was around her. "David had one, but he gave it back while we were in Mexico—it was in my purse when it went overboard." There were questions in Ty's eyes, and she added, "It's a long story."

  "You don't think this David had a copy made?"

  "He wouldn't do that," she said, but heard the doubt in her words. "Besides, he's in Houston."

  "You think."

  "He's not a part of this," she said, shaking her head emphatically, as if to convince herself. Clearing her throat, she stepped out of Ty's embrace. She didn't need to be falling apart and into his arms. Her knees were no longer weak, and the horror she felt was slowly being replaced by anger. She couldn't, wouldn't let some anonymous creep threaten her or ruin her life. "It's… it's over between David and me. Has been for quite a while."

  "Does he know it?"

  "Yeah."

  Ty's jaw slid to one side as if he didn't quite believe her, but he didn't argue the point. His gaze swept the deserted parking structure before returning to Sam. "Who's Annie Seger?"

  "A girl who called in to my radio program in Houston. Nine years ago."

  "She's the same one who phoned you tonight?"

  "She claims to be."

  "But Annie's dead," he deduced. "And this pervert, whoever he is, blames you? Is that what you think?"

  "Yes." She nodded. "It must be the guy who calls in… John or whatever his real name is. He's always talking about sin and retribution, that I'm guilty of some crime, although lately he's acted like I was a prostitute or something. It… it doesn't make any sense, doesn't hang together. Tonight when he phoned in after the show, he told me I was going to die."

  Ty's eyes narrowed. "So he's escalating. His threats are more specific."

  "Yes."

  "Damn." He raked stiff fingers through his hair. "So you think he called in, pretended he was a woman… is that it… or that… or that he has an accomplice and… that this is what? Some kind of conspiracy to scare the hell out of you?"

  "I—I don't know," she admitted and again felt weak, an emotion she detested.

  "We have to go to the police."

  "I know," she said, hating the thought. She was bone-tired and wanted nothing more than to fall into a l
ong, hot bath, towel off and fall into bed to sleep for about a billion hours.

  "Let me call." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. Sam braced herself for another ordeal. How many times had she already been questioned? Four times? Five? She was beginning to lose count.

  And the stalker was still at large. She rotated the kinks from her neck as Ty talked to the dispatcher, who promised that the officers who had been at the station less than half an hour earlier would meet them at the garage.

  The two uniformed cops made it in fifteen minutes, driving to the parking garage with their siren wailing and lights flashing. They asked questions, checked out Sam's car, put the card in a plastic bag and called for other officers to dust the Mustang for fingerprints as well as check the interior for other evidence, then looked over the structure of the vehicle to ensure that it was safe to drive.

  By the time all the officers had finished and driven away, it was after three.

  Ty's mouth was a thin, hard line. "I think I should drive you home."

  She was touched, but shook her head. "Don't be ridiculous. I can drive."

  Ty wasn't having any of it. "Listen, Samantha, whoever did this is sick. We both know that. He broke into your car tonight, right? What's to say that he didn't tamper with it? Drain the brake fluid, or plant a bomb or—"

  "The police checked it."

  "They can miss things."

  "I don't think so, and I'm not going to start jumping at my own shadow. I can't live my life scared. If I do, I lose, Ty. He wins. That's what he wants. To scare me to death. Make me nervous and edgy. He's playing a psychological game with me, and if he killed me, it would be over. And tampering with the car is too… impersonal. This guy calls me up, he sends me letters, he lets me know he's around. He didn't like it when I was on the speaker phone. He wants to be intimate with me. To be personal. To get into my head. I know it. I feel it."

  "And do you 'know' or 'feel' that he could be a killer? For God's sake, Samantha, he's threatened to kill you."

  Sam was thinking hard now, rubbing her arms despite the heat, biting her lip and starting to understand the man who called himself John. "I know," she admitted. "But it won't be until I've repented, not until I understand the sins I've committed. He's into some kind of religious thing—sin, retribution."