Outsiders. Part 12

"I know." If anybody understands what it's like to be the sole focus of another person-and not in a good way-it's my Hayley. A glance at the bedside clock tells me it's going on eight. "I'd better get my a.s.s in gear."

"Do you need a pep talk?"

"Never hurts."

"Okay." She takes a theatrical deep breath, and I laugh, loving her with every fiber of my being in that moment. "Buck up, babe. You're a tough-a.s.s. You're way tougher than this guy. He's a creep. He's a menace to Rebecca Ca.s.sidy, and you need to convince him that it's in his best interest to back the h.e.l.l off."

I admit, it sounds a little corny, but her tone is hard, and the fact that she's been in Rebecca's shoes makes her that much more credible. I stand, bolster myself, pull my shoulders back, and puff up. Todd Bennett can't see how much he scares me, how intimidating it is to know what he does. I have to be strong and tough and a bada.s.s. And Pax will be there if I need her.

I clench my fist and will strength to flow through me. I'm always a little surprised when it does.

"The Universe picked you for a reason," Hayley continues. "Because you can handle it."

That's always her parting line, and it never misses. I feel power surge through me, a certainty that what I'm doing is not only right, but necessary.

"Thanks, babe," I say softly.

"Anytime. Call me later."

"I will."

"I love you, Norah. Be careful. That's an order."

"Yes, ma'am."

The door opens before I can even raise my hand to knock, though Pax stays out of view as I slip quickly inside. I'm thankful for me, but not for Rebecca, that people around here don't seem to pay a lot of attention to the comings and goings of their neighbors. When you won't be sticking around, you tend not to reach out to those nearby. Getting to know who lives next door doesn't matter because you're leaving anyway. I've never been to this development before in my life, but now I've broken into this apartment twice in two days, and n.o.body seems to have noticed.

I haven't really bothered with much of a disguise, but I took a little bit of precaution. I'm not famous by any means, but if you were to do a thorough enough Google search, you could find me. I have no idea how Todd will react to me, and the last thing I want is for him to find my real ident.i.ty...not that he'd have any idea where I've come from or how or why, but still. I've tucked my blonde hair up into the Seattle Seahawks baseball cap, figuring the least I could do is send him to the wrong coast, and I've got on black-rimmed gla.s.ses with slightly tinted lenses. Combined with how dark he keeps his apartment, he probably won't be able to make out a single detail about my face. My clothes are plain and indiscernible, worn jeans and a plain, navy blue sweatshirt with no logo or markings. A glance around the room tells me nothing's changed from the night before.

"How do you want to play this?" Pax asks me, her standard line, and I jump just a bit, having almost forgotten she's here with me. It briefly crosses my mind that I need to have her teach me how to move so quietly and be so un.o.btrusive. Then I remember that I hope never to have to call her again, and that idea zips right out of my head.

I explain my plan to her. Whether she thinks it's a good one or complete c.r.a.p on a cracker, I have no idea, as her face remains impa.s.sive and her eyes are shaded behind the ever-present sungla.s.ses. How she can see in the darkness of this place, I haven't a clue. She gives one quick nod of her head and positions herself near the door to wait. For the first time, I notice the small duffel bag she has with her, and she sets it near her feet. I look away, not wanting to know anything about the contents or where they came from, since I'm relatively sure they're things she wouldn't have been able to get on the plane. My stomach rebels, and I try to remind myself of what Todd Bennett has put Rebecca Ca.s.sidy through over the past years. Taking my position in the bedroom, I open the closet door to help that reminder along. I'm a.s.saulted once again by the insanity of the photos, and I have to tear my eyes away. I lean against a nearby wall and try to mimic Pax's patient silence.

Thank G.o.d I don't have to wait long or I very well may have pulled out my own hair from the nervous antic.i.p.ation, but I'm saved when I hear a key in the door. There's a brief scuffling sound, almost like the shuffling of feet, a thump, and a groan. I hear them approaching the bedroom, and I quickly flash back to my college drama cla.s.s, when my teacher, Professor Zeigler, taught us to grab from our own experiences in order to get ourselves into the right mood for a scene. My mind unspools a film reel of every wronged, mistreated woman I've ever dealt with and shows them all to me in quick succession. I can almost feel myself hardening as my fists clench at my side and my jaw muscles tighten. I snap my head to one side, then the other, and hear cracks come from my vertebrae, a release of tension, and suddenly I feel every bit the tough-a.s.s Hayley said I am, every bit the savior Rebecca needs me to be.

It's hard for me to describe how this persona comes over me. I don't often have to deal face-to-face with the people I handle for my clients. As I've explained to you, a lot of what I do consists of strategically placed phone calls, covert B-and-E's, making sure somebody is in the right place at the right time. It's not a lot of person-to-person interaction. Only in the extreme cases like Hayley's or like this one. And when it comes down to it, somehow, I manage to find the power I need to change into somebody that I'm really...not.

Or maybe I'm completely full of s.h.i.t, in complete denial, and this is exactlywho I am.

Todd Bennett is dropped to his knees at my feet. His bottom lip is b.l.o.o.d.y, his hands are cuffed behind his back, and Pax has a thin strap around his neck that she's holding tightly from behind him, like he's her dog and she's the abusive owner.

"Good evening, Mr. Bennett," I say, and my voice is as steady as if Todd and I are two old business a.s.sociates meeting for drinks.

His eyes dart around the room, seeing the open closet with its light on, and I'm sure he's trying to put the pieces together. The truth is, though, he has no freaking clue who I am, and I like it that way.

"I'll get right to the point, Mr. Bennett, because you're looking a little...peaked. You and I have a common acquaintance." With that, I give a Vanna-White-like sweep of my arm toward the closet. "Ms. Ca.s.sidy."

His eyes widen ever so slightly before he catches himself. "I...I don't understand," he croaks.

"Of course you don't. That's because you're a psychotic p.r.i.c.k who can't get a date without stalking one."

That hit a nerve, and his eyes narrow at me. His upper lip crinkles just a bit, but it's enough to give me a glimpse of the real man inside. I can absolutely see that he is psychotic, and there is not a doubt in my mind he will kill Rebecca sooner or later. In this moment, seeing that glimmer, I already know where this is going to go, but I have to make sure to examine all angles.

"You and I both know that you've been stalking Ms. Ca.s.sidy for years. I know you've gone to prison and that it apparently had no effect on you. I've seen the police reports. I've seen the look on her face when you send her one of your little love notes. And you know what, Mr. Bennett? It's going to stop. Right here. Right now. Enough. You are not to contact her again. You are not to call her answering machine or her cell phone or her number at work. You are not to mail her anything. You are not to park behind her townhouse and spy on her all night."

He's looking a little freaked right now, probably because I've listed all his covert ops like I'm telling him what groceries I'm about to buy, and he's wondering if he saw me and didn't pay any attention. I bet he's kicking himself for being so careless. He struggles, and Pax tightens the strap around his neck, sending him into a coughing spasm. I squat down so I'm eye-to-eye with him.

"Let me use little words, so you'll be sure to understand." I drop my voice to a menacing whisper and speak very matter-of-factly. "I will be watching. And if I find you anywhere near Ms. Ca.s.sidy again, anywhere at all near her, I'm going to skip the slashed tires and the handcuffs and I'm simply going to have you taken out, and that will be the end of that." I stare into his eyes, looking for the fear of understanding, the realization that I'm not f.u.c.king around, that he'd better heed my warnings and hit the road, but it's not there. I try not to sigh in disappointment, instead maintaining my ominous tone. "Are we clear, Mr. Bennett?"

He manages to nod even as he glares at me, all dagger eyes and anger, and I stand up in order to pull away from his negative energy. He looks up at me, and the hatred he sends my way is almost palpable. With no idea how, I manage notto step back in alarm, in fright. Instead, I arch an eyebrow at him, not letting on for a second that he's scaring the c.r.a.p out of me.

"I'm not kidding around here," I warn him. "Don't test me."

I step past him and give Pax an almost indiscernible nod. As I reach the front door, I hear the zzz of her Taser and feel confident that we won't have to deal with Todd Bennett for the rest of the night.

Tomorrow, however, is another story.

Chapter Eight.

When I was a senior in high school, I dated a boy named Nelson. Don't let the wimpy name fool you, he was beautiful. This, of course, was before I realized how much more beautiful women are. He was lean and muscular and handsome with light hair and smiling blue eyes. We were terrific friends, and I often think about him and wonder where he is now, how his life turned out; my memories are fond. Anyway, we were goofing off one day after school and we got into a friendly wrestling match. Being the sweet guy that he was, he let me have the upper hand for a while before smoothly taking control and pinning me to the floor flat on my back beneath him, my arms stretched over my head. I will never forget that moment. There was a split second where, all at once, it was absolutely crystal clear to me how strong he really was, how much stronger men are than women, inherently. It's a fact of life. In that instant, I understood that if Nelson wanted to hurt me, if he wanted to have his way with me right then and there, he could and there wasn't a d.a.m.n thing I could do about it. He was just too strong for me to fight him off. Luckily, he had those smiling eyes, and I trusted him and everything was fine, but that realization will stick with me for the rest of my life. Men are strong and they can be scary and, if they want something from a woman physically, chances are, they can take it. Not that they would; I don't mean to generalize. I am well aware of the fact that most men are not creeps and sc.u.mbags and psychotic killers and rapists. But it's in the eyes; there's a reason people say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Nelson's eyes allayed my fears; Todd Bennett's terrified me.

"I don't like it, Norah." Hayley was trying hard to be calm and not let the trickle of fear into her voice, but I could hear it.

"I know, sweetie. But you said it, Pax is here. I'll be fine."

"He scares me. He sounds so much like Brant."

I shouldn't have told her about Todd Bennett in quite as much detail as I did; I know that now. I just made her worry. But I've never felt right about sugar-coating the specifics of a case for her. In fact, she asked me early on not to. She believes in what I do, knows it's necessary, and that most of the time, the women I help have no other options. So she's never shown any kind of reservation before. I think this case is. .h.i.tting a little too close to home.

"You keep Pax close. I know she weirds you out a little bit, but she can protect you. This guy is a loose cannon, and it sounds like nothing you said to him today is going to make any difference." Her tone has moved from concern to certainty. She talks like she knows her s.h.i.t, which, of course, she does. "He's gone into if-I-can't-have-her-n.o.body-can mode. That's the next logical step. If Pax didn't make him soil his tighty-whities, he's not going to be convinced."

She's absolutely right, but I don't tell her that. I don't tell her that I'm actually thanking my lucky stars Todd Bennett has no way of knowing who I am, what hotel I'm in, that he couldn't possibly find me. That's how much the look on his face scared me, and it makes me angry to admit it. I'm a strong woman, stronger than most I know, both physically and emotionally. I don't take kindly to being terrified in my own skin, but I can't seem to shake the creeping w.i.l.l.i.e.s that crawl along my arms and the back of my neck like tiny insects every time I flash back to earlier.

It's after ten now and I wonder if Todd Bennett is still unconscious from the zapping he took. I hope so. I try hard never to take anybody's safety for granted, especially after doing what I do for more than ten years. But I realize that I was a bit too lax in my investigation of Rebecca Ca.s.sidy. Not that I could have done much differently. I have no control over the timing. I never know when the names will appear to me or how much time I have before somebody could be in danger, but I'm not pleased with the nonchalant way I searched for Rebecca. Todd Bennett could have killed her that first night, and I'd have been sitting on my a.s.s in the parking lot wondering why he wasn't showing.

"Stop it." Hayley's voice pulls me out of my reverie.

"Stop what?"

"You're doing it again. You're getting stuck inside your head. You had no way of knowing what a danger this guy is."

I feel the corners of my mouth quirk up just a bit, almost against my will. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Know exactly what I'm thinking?"

I hear her release a breath, and I can picture her making herself more comfortable on our bed, sinking into the thick down comforter, her naked body sliding along the cool sheets. "I know you. I know your heart. After that, understanding what you're thinking isn't that much of a leap. Besides, you always go there when a case is more difficult than you expected it to be. You always beat yourself up, wondering how you could have done things differently to change the outcome when the truth is, you couldn't have. So stop it."

"Yes, ma'am." I say it tenderly, and I hope she can hear all the love I feel for her in that moment. She's much too good for me.

"Just do what you need to do, finish this up, and come home to me. I miss you."

"I miss you too."

We talk for a few more minutes about silly, trivial things before we say our goodnights. After we've hung up, my mind wanders back to thoughts about the Universe my mother spoke of. I honestly don't know what I believe. The Universe, heaven, h.e.l.l, reincarnation, nothingness. I haven't a clue what happens to us when we die, whether we each have a destiny that's already written, whether we come back to fix mistakes we made the first time around. I don't get any of it, and I try not to dwell. Given what I do with my days, with my life, I don't think I want to know if there's a higher power all set and ready to judge me when my time comes.

Often, these are the thoughts that swirl in my head when I'm submerged in a case. Sounds like fun, doesn't it?

The next morning, Pax sends a text to Hayley letting her know that Rebecca Ca.s.sidy is safe at work, the front door to her townhouse is unlocked, and Pax is tailing Todd Bennett, who is just returning to the land of the living after his surprise meeting with the business end of a Taser. I have no idea how she manages to get so many things done in such a short s.p.a.ce of time without anybody noticing. Does she have a clone? Does she have underlings who do her bidding in various cities? I'm sure I don't want the answers to these questions, but I'm curious just the same. Inarguably, this is why her fee is exorbitant. She certainly earns it.

I park down the street from Rebecca's development and stroll into her parking lot, trying to be as nonchalant and unnoticeable as I can. I'm once again wearing my Seahawks hat and the gla.s.ses, and my clothes are just as boring as they were yesterday: jeans and a long-sleeve Tar Heels T-shirt. Everybody in this city who's not wearing a Duke shirt is wearing a Tar Heels shirt, so it's not like I'll be standing out.

The sky is robin's-egg blue today, and the sun is shining cheerfully. It all seems so strange, all bubbly and happy, unmindful of the turmoil that some people are no doubt going through today. The sun warms my head gently, the bluebirds flit around looking for debris with which to build their nests, and spring flowers bloom in bright colors, despite the fact that Rebecca Ca.s.sidy's life is in danger and has been for years. Nature is blind like that. h.e.l.l, lifeis blind like that.

I nod silently to a young man I pa.s.s as I walk, but I'm relieved that n.o.body is around Rebecca's unit. I act like I know exactly what I'm doing, like I'm totally supposed to be there, as I reach her door. I learned that lesson early on. Un.o.btrusive is the last thing you are when you're constantly looking over your shoulder, skulking around like you don't belong. Thatmakes people notice you. Instead, I simply walk up to Rebecca's door, turn the k.n.o.b, and walk in, then close and lock it quickly behind me.

It takes a couple moments for my eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room, and the pounding of my heart in my ears is temporarily distracting. No matter how long I do this, I don't think I'll ever feel easy about being someplace I'm not supposed to be. I'm a good girl at heart and sneaking around like this makes me a little ill at ease. I tend to think that's a good thing. Frankly, the idea of not being the least bit bothered about breaking into somebody else's home freaks me out.

Rebecca Ca.s.sidy is neat, but not obsessively so, and a quick glance around her living room makes me like her right away. There aren't a lot of froo-froo items lying around, no dust-collecting knick-knacks, or scary collections of weird stuff like nutcrackers or Precious Moments figurines, but there are a lot of books, several well-worn throw pillows, and a really nice stereo system. Lots of fiction, comfortable lounging areas, and great sound...Rebecca is obviously a girl after my own heart. If there's mint chocolate chip ice cream in the freezer, I might have to marry her. Don't tell Hayley. She has nothing on the walls, which gives a little bit of a stark feel to the place, but two things occur to me. One: she hasn't been here that long. Two: she has probably grown used to being ready to flee at a moment's notice, which just makes me sad, because judging by what I can see, she'd do a really nice job decorating a living s.p.a.ce she knew she'd be staying in for a while. My sympathy for her wells up a bit, and I sigh, wondering not for the first time why stalkers can't hunt annoying, high-maintenance b.i.t.c.hes instead of nice girls. A stupid thing to think, I know, but I think it anyway.

I like the smell of Rebecca's place. The air doesn't reek of violence or anger or fear, like the situation warrants. It's simpler. Sweeter. Welcoming, even, like cinnamon or freshly baked bread. It invites me in, tells me to pull up a chair and stay for a while. And I want to.

Her tastes lean toward feminine-more flowers and paisley than I would pick for my own home-but the furniture speaks of comfort, and the atmosphere is warm. Rebecca Ca.s.sidy is probably a fabulous hostess. I imagine sinking into her floral-print couch while she brings out bold, rich coffee in kitschy mugs and a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies. Yes, I realize I'm making her into a fifties housewife, but I can't help it. That's the image this place hands my brain.

The presence of Pax, of course, puts a damper on my fantasies. How could it not? She's like a hulking harbinger of doom, so completely out of place in this setting, it's almost laughable. She's like an angry, dark scab on an otherwise perfect a.s.s, and I have to look away to hide my grin at the comparison.

Since there's not a doubt in my mind that the bedroom is always the room of focus for somebody like Todd Bennett, I head up the stairs. The second floor is nicely laid out with two good-sized bedrooms, a bathroom, and a washer and dryer hidden smartly behind folding doors, which stand open now. The smell of Downy tells me Rebecca was doing laundry this morning.

Her bedroom is where the personal items are, and I'm strangely relieved to see them. The protection I feel for this woman I've never met isn't new to me-it actually happens a lot in my line of work-and the lack of photos or anything that reflects her personality in the living room made me sad for her. Here on her dresser, though, is a pewter-framed black-and-white wedding photo of a couple that can only be her parents. A smaller frame outlines two teenage girls with the same strawberry-blonde hair, their arms wrapped lovingly around one another's shoulders. Rebecca and her sister. I have trouble pulling my eyes away as I wonder where these family members are and why they haven't helped her. Then I realize it's more than likely she hasn't told them much-if anything-about Todd Bennett. There are any number of reasons why-embarra.s.sment, not wanting to worry your loved ones, miscalculation of the danger-and they all seem silly to me now.

I move to the bed, neatly made and covered with throw pillows as if they were candy sprinkles on ice cream. The colors are cheerful primaries-reds, blues, oranges-and the room is the perfect marriage of teenage girl and grown woman. I take a seat on the mattress that's a bit too soft for me, close my eyes, and try hard to clear my head.

I wish Hayley was here.

And then I'm glad she's not.

I hate that she's touched at all, even fingertip-lightly, by this life of mine.

There is no sound from the rest of the townhouse, and I know Pax is practicing her own waiting ritual. I have no idea how long this will take, and I concentrate on visuals of things that help me relax-a warm, sandy beach, a gentle rainstorm, the lull of a silent car ride-and soon, my heart rate slows, the pace of my breathing evens out, and I talk each muscle into loosening, letting go. It's a long process, which is why I do it. I could be sitting on Rebecca's bed all day, for all I know.

Such will not be the case today, though, and at the sound of the front door, my muscles spasm suddenly with tension like so many overextended rubber bands. Hoping Rebecca returned home for something she forgot, but knowing instinctively that it's Todd Bennett, I hold my breath and marvel at how frighteningly easy it is to break into somebody else's home. How horrified would Rebecca be to know that at this very moment, there are strangers wandering through her s.p.a.ce and looking at her things?

I brace myself as whoever it is climbs the stairs. I don't blink. I don't breathe. The emotional mix that floods my system-anger, disgust, fear, hatred, and disappointment-narrows and pinpoints until it's only disgust. My expression hardens; I can actually feel it do so, and my eyebrows draw together. At this moment, there is nothing else in this world. Just this. Just me and this piece-of-s.h.i.t man who will never terrorize or terrify another woman again. I gave him the chance to change his ways and he blew it. Game over. He is a boil on the skin of humanity. I am the lance.

His shock is plain as he steps into the bedroom. He sports jeans and a black, tight-fitting T-shirt, a non-descript duffel bag dangling from his shoulder. Blue eyes widen behind the wire rims, then dart around the room in apparent confusion. I c.o.c.k my head to the side and watch him, wondering what's going through his head. Is he kicking himself for not being more patient and waiting longer before making his move? Is he calculating his chances of making it back to the door and escaping? Is he wondering if maybe he can take me out with his bare hands? Or does he already know how this will end?

When his gaze settles back on me, it almost seems questioning, as if he thinks we're at an impa.s.se, as if asking, "Now what?" My answer to him is quite simple.

"I warned you."

The only visible change in his expression is a small twitch at one corner of his mouth. In the next second, he's convulsing on his feet, the second bite of a Taser in twenty-four hours coursing through his nervous system. I didn't even see Pax, had no idea she was so close. As Todd Bennett collapses to the floor like a heap of wet towels, Pax shoots me a quick glance and no-nonsense command.

"Go."

She doesn't have to tell me twice. The deadness on her face, the utter lack of any kind of emotion at all, is enough to propel me up off the bed and out of the room. I don't look back as I maneuver down the stairs, hoping I don't trip over my own freaked-out feet. My hand grips the doork.n.o.b so tightly, my knuckles go immediately white, and I have to close my eyes and force my ragged breathing to steady. I can't sprint out of the townhouse, much as I'd like to. I'm supposed to be discreet, subtle, unnoticed. Like I'm preparing to go onstage and give a speech, I take a deep breath, count to five, and open the door. I exit Rebecca Ca.s.sidy's home calmly and un.o.btrusively, as if I've done it a million times before.

I don't look back.

Chapter Nine.

I drive for a while; it's the only way I'm ever able to really clear my head. My brain goes into this weird zone of thinking-but-not, and I'm barely conscious of things like stopping and turning. I am truly on autopilot.

At some point, more than an hour later, my subconscious must just turn control back over to me because I'm tooling along down highway fifty-four when I register something round and brown in the road about a hundred yards ahead of me. Luckily, traffic is light on the two-lane road. A great blue heron soars by as I brake to a gentle stop, put my car in park, and get out.

The turtle is the size of a dinner plate, which is a little intimidating. From what I've read, it's very common for them to wander into the road and get squished by fat rubber tires as they roll on by. There are wetlands on either side of this stretch, and it's much greener and lusher here at this time of year than it is at home in New York. I breathe in the scent of nature as I approach the turtle, and he pulls in his feet and head to ward off my likely attack.

"Hey there, big man," I say softly to him as I gingerly grasp him by the sides of his sh.e.l.l. "You got a death wish or something?" He's surprisingly heavy as I lift him and carry him the rest of the way across the road in the direction he was facing, then set him down in the gra.s.s.

A car slows as it pa.s.ses, bless the polite heart of the true southerner, and the driver gives me a smile and a nod of approval for my actions. Isn't that ironic? Here I am, rescuing a turtle in distress, not two hours after ordering and paying handsomely for the extermination of another human being. Would the woman in the car be so quick with her smile if she knew that? I can almost envision the horror as it washes over her face once she has all the facts. I am a murderer just as surely as Pax is a murderer. Just because I don't do the actual killing doesn't mean I don't have blood on my hands. I'm painfully aware of this fact, believe me.

Later that afternoon, I go to a movie. I can hear you making judgments, thinking, You just had somebody killed and then you went to see a flick? What kind of a cold-hearted b.i.t.c.h are you? I've asked myself the very same questions, I promise you. But I need something to hijack my focus for a while, something to make the time go by, because I have one more thing to take care of before I can head home. Just bear with me, and you'll understand. The film is an above-average romantic comedy starring Sandra Bullock and some impossibly handsome guy. Frankly, Sandy could be on the screen doing absolutely nothing for two hours, and I'd gladly fork over my money to watch, so it's a good choice for me. By the time it's over and I emerge, blinking rapidly in the blinding sun like somebody trapped for weeks in a dark cave, it's nearly five o'clock. I give my BlackBerry a glance, and there's a text from Hayley that says simply, "Done." She hasn't called or left any other messages because she knows I need time. I'll contact her when I'm ready.

I knock on the front door, no shaking or sweating or nerves, not once showing any signs that I was in this very same place illegally not six hours ago. The development is bustling now, people returning from work, kids home from school. The change in atmosphere from this morning is almost jarring.

This is the part I love. The impending conversation-if it goes well-is what will allow me to sleep tonight, to look at myself in the mirror tomorrow morning, to understand why Hayley isn't repulsed by me.

"Hi," Rebecca says. "Can I help you?" Her smile is genuine but hesitant, as if she's expecting me to try to sell her something or offer to save her soul.

"Rebecca Ca.s.sidy?" I ask, even though I know I have the right person.