Resurrection Page 8

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I was an ass this morning,” Jay said, standing on Jo’s front stoop with his shoulders hunched against a cold, steady downpour. His hair hung in his face, a drenched and dripping mess.

  “Yes, you were.” Jo regarded him coolly, her hand on her hip, not opening the screen door to let him inside. She’d been home from work for an hour or so, and had changed from her uniform into a pair of sweats and an old, rumpled T-shirt. Her auburn curls had frizzed from the rain during her dashes from the hospital to her car and then into her house. She’d spent a good twenty minutes rubbing her hair dry with a towel and now it framed her face in what was surely an unflattering and disheveled tumble. Could I look any more repulsive? she thought, mortified, as she struggled to keep a stoic and stern expression on her face. He drove all of the way out here in the rain to apologize, and I look like hell. Spectacular! And are those flowers?

  “I brought you these,” Jay said, holding out a soaked bouquet of roses, enveloped in soggy green tissue paper. He tried to smile, even as rain trailed into his eyes, and his lips began to tremble from the chill. “A peace offering, I hope.”

  She couldn’t remember the last time anyone brought her flowers. She opened the door widely enough to pinch the sodden bouquet between her fingertips and draw it indoors. She held it over her doormat to drip and forced herself to make him remain outside a bit longer. Charles would say to let him stand out there all night. And he’d be right.

  She looked at his pitiful, sodden misery and felt her righteously indignant façade falter. She stepped back, opening the door again. “It’s pouring,” she said. “Come inside before you freeze.”

  * * *

  She offered him dry clothes to wear―his clothes, as a matter of fact; the T-shirt and sweat pants she’d taken from his room after her resurrection. He changed in the bathroom while she put a pot of tea on the stove to steep. The bathroom door sat unevenly on its hinges―one of many things in the house that Jo had been meaning to fix since she’d bought it last year―and it never closed completely. It would slowly swing inwards of its own accord until, eventually, it stood open again. As Jo left the kitchen, returning to the living room to hang up Jay’s drenched overcoat, she glanced inadvertently toward the bathroom and caught a glimpse of him pulling the fresh T-shirt over his head. She paused, admiring the all-too-quick view of the flat plain of his stomach, the muscles in his abdomen stacked neatly, tapering toward his groin. This quick peek of lean muscles and finely etched lines stoked an immediate, unexpected and powerful reaction in her, snapping her mind back to her deathscape, and the pleasure he brought repeatedly, wondrously to her there.

  “You know, you have a leak in your sink faucet here,” he called to her, unaware of her watching him.

  She jerked in abashed surprise, and hurried into the living room, her face ablaze with color. “Yes,” she called back, grimacing at how her voice cracked hoarsely, shrilly. She cleared her throat, struggling to compose herself. “Yes, it’s done that ever since I bought the place.”

  “I could fix it for you,” he said, walking out of the bathroom. He stood in the doorway to the living room, his dark hair lying in damp, tousled waves about his face. Seeing him there, comfortably dressed and posed, as if he belonged in her home, her doorway, her heart, left Jo momentarily breathless.

  “It’s probably just a worn washer,” he said. “If you want, I can run out to the hardware store tomorrow after work and get you another one.”

  “That would be nice,” Jo said, nodding. They stood there, looking at one another in mutual, awkward silence for a moment and she knew she needed to say something. She needed to tell him about Rich. She needed him to understand. “Rich is in prison.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “My ex-husband, Rich. He’s in prison, serving six years on a felony drug possession charge. Your brother didn’t tell you that, did he?”

  He shook his head, visibly dismayed. “No.”

  She smiled sadly. “It’s alright. Don’t be angry with him. He was looking out for you and your daughter. It’s not the first time someone has judged me by Rich’s sins.”

  She sat down on the couch and folded her hands in her lap. “He never hit me before the drugs,” she said. “It used to be good between us. Then he started using, and he turned into someone completely different. Someone I didn’t know―someone who frightened me.” She glanced up at Jay. “But he couldn’t have attacked me that night. He isn’t even eligible for parole until next summer.”

  Jay went to her, dropping to his knees and slipped her hands between his own. “Jo, I’m sorry,” he said, his brows lifted. “I didn’t know. I was an ass this morning. All the things I said to you. I didn’t―”

  “It’s alright,” she said softly, as something in her heart softened sweetly to see the genuine implore in his eyes, the earnest remorse. Rich had always come to her full of apologies after he’d hit her, but she’d never been able to see it fully in his eyes. She’d seen instead the glittering, manic energy of a seasoned drug addict; a hollow shell of the man she’d once loved. She pressed her hand against Jay’s face. “It’s alright,” she said again.

  He leaned toward her, tilting his face, letting his mouth settle gently against hers. She kissed him back, letting her lips part, the tip of her tongue brushing against his. He cradled her face between his hands, drawing her toward him, kissing her more deeply as he uttered a soft, murmuring sound of pleasure against her mouth.

  She closed her eyes, leaning her head back, gasping softly as his lips began to trail along the slope of her jaw, following the length of her neck. He moved his hand, letting his palm fall gently against her breast, moving with slow but insistent pressure. She clutched at him, tangling her fingers in his hair as his slipped his hand beneath the hem of her t-shirt and quickly, deftly unsnapped the front fastening of her bra. His hand was warm against her breasts, and her nipples hardened with the deliberate, wondrous friction as his fingertips played against them each in turn.

  “We…we should stop,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and breathless with longing, as he nuzzled her ear. She nodded in agreement, even as one hand moved, sliding against her belly, and slipped beneath the waistband of her sweatpants.

  “Yes,” she murmured, shifting her weight, lifting her hips so he could reach beneath her panties, drawing between her thighs, parting her, brushing against her warmth. She tightened her grip on his hair as his fingertips delved against her, exploring. “Yes, we should…”

  He kissed her, muffling her voice. He moved his hand, his fingers slipping inside of her, and she moaned, pulling him closer, nearly desperate with need. She jerked at his t-shirt, pulling it up toward his neck, and felt the warmth of his skin, his belly against her.

  Their hands tangled between them as they fumbled and fought to shed their clothes. She kicked her legs, bucking her hips to lose her sweat pants, while he flapped one arm at a time to rid himself of his shirt. She tugged at his pants and shoved them down from his hips, leaving nothing between them but a brief margin of open air.

  He drew away from her, poised both to kiss her again and to plunge himself deeply into her as she lay beneath him, her breath fluttering, her body trembling with eager anticipation.

  He’s right. We shouldn’t do this, Jo thought. It’s too soon. It can’t be right yet, no matter how it feels. It can’t―

  Jo caught his face in her hands, pulling him down toward her, pressing his mouth against hers, abandoning her reservations. She wanted this―wanted him. She had wanted him from the moment she’d turned and seen him in the parking lot at the hospital.

  He slid into her easily, and she arched her back, moaning against his mouth as she drew him in further. He began to move, driving himself into her, cradling one of her breasts against his hand while leaning over to draw the other nipple between his lips. Jo’s hands coiled in his hair; she matched his every move, writhing beneath him, her breath coming in urgent, quickening gasps.

>   She had no idea how long they made love. She was aware of the clatter of falling objects, breaking glass as they moved about on the couch and knocked things off the nearby coffee table. In the end, he was sitting upright, and Jo straddled him. He clasped her buttocks with his hands as she grinded against him, driving him to a tremendous climax that left him crying out, his head thrown back with pleasure. When she found simultaneous release, her entire body tightened against him, within and without.

  She slumped against him, trembling, as Jay held her near, stroking his hand against her hair. She looked back over her shoulder and saw magazines knocked off the coffee table to the floor. A glass vase that held a scented pillar candle and decorative gravel had tumbled, spilled and broken. Throw pillows were tossed off the sofa and scattered about. Their clothes lay draped and thrown haphazardly in every direction.

  She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand to stifle a snort. “Wow!”

  He glanced around them, his face glossed with a light sweat, and snickered. “Jesus,” he said, and Jo laughed aloud. “I’ll buy you another one of those candle things.”

  He turned, the tip of his nose brushing hers, and when he smiled, she felt any defenses she had left completely crumble. “You forgive me, then?” he whispered. “My apology is accepted?”

  She touched his face, pulling him toward her. “I’m working on it,” she said, and kissed him.

  * * *

  By the time Jay returned to his brownstone, it was just after midnight. He was distracted on his ride home with pleasant thoughts about Jo, and their lovemaking. He also thought about Paul, and grew angry at his older brother for conveniently omitting crucial details about Jo’s drug-addicted husband.

  Such as he’s not her husband anymore―and he’s in prison. Despite the late hour, Jay considered calling Paul and telling him to back the hell out of his private life. More than once along his drive, Jay fished his cell phone out of his coat pocket and thumbed the speed dial button to ring his brother’s line. He never pressed it, even though he knew Paul was probably awake. Hell, he’s probably still at the office. It’s like Vicki is always saying―they should put a cot beside his desk.

  As Jay parallel-parked into a vacant space, he frowned, puzzled by the fact that there were no lights visible from inside the brownstone

  That’s not like Marie, he thought as he got out of the Volvo wagon and set the alarm. The brownstone had a spare bedroom that Marie was welcome to use as her own, but she always refused his offers to become their live-in housekeeper. She said she still couldn’t bear to part with the house that she and Wallace shared, and preferred to spend her nights there, in the bed she’d known for more than thirty years.

  Whenever Jay was out late, well past dinner and Emma’s bedtime, it was Marie’s habit to wait for him in the living room, where she would read, work on a needlepoint project, or watch television. She always left at least one light on, and usually several. She had a fear of the dark rooted in her early childhood, she’d once told Jay. Even when she was asleep, she kept lamps lit at home.

  Under normal circumstances, Marie might have brought Emma to Paul’s house, if she had plans, until Jay was able to pick her up. A note to this effect would be on the kitchen countertop, along with a gentle but firm admonishment for not calling to let her know of his delay.

  But tonight, Marie not only knew he’d be late―she’d condoned it. Then what’s going on? he wondered, climbing the stairs and reaching the stoop. Emma couldn’t be sick or hurt; Marie would have called him right away on his cell phone if that had been the case.

  The porch light was off, and Jay frowned as he sifted through his keys, looking for his house key with only the glow of the streetlight over his shoulder to guide him. His hands felt funny, tingling, and all at once, his fingers didn’t want to cooperate. He fumbled and dropped the keys, cursing aloud. He bent over to retrieve them and froze, his eyes flying wide.

  My hands…!

  He stood slowly, holding his hands up in front of him. They felt as though he’d taken hold of something alive and wriggling; he felt them trembling beneath his gloves. It was a sensation he recognized all too well; one he loathed and feared.

  Oh, God, no!

  No!

  NO!

  “Emma…!” he gasped, and snatched up his keys. Oh, God, not my daughter. Please, no, not Emma!

  He fumbled frantically until he found the front door key. As he moved to jam it home, the door yielded, already unlocked and unlatched. It swung slowly inward, opening into the darkened foyer beyond.

  Now his heart raced, a frightened, panicked cadence. He couldn’t breathe. His throat constricted to a pinpoint and his hands shook, thrumming with insistent, irresistible need.

  “Emma!” Jay cried hoarsely, rushing into the brownstone and up the steps from the foyer. He couldn’t see anything. The house lay draped in shadows, and there was no sound, no movement… nothing but the sensation in his hands, growing stronger, more powerful with every step, every second, letting him know he wasn’t alone.

  “Emma!” he screamed. “Emma! Marie! Where are―”

  His voice cut abruptly short as he slipped and stumbled into something on the floor. He crashed to his knees, and his thrumming hands hit the polished wood floor. It was as if twin spears of molten heat seared upward through his arms, shuddering through his shoulders.

  God, please, he thought, gasping for breath and shoving the heels of his hands against his eyes as if to contain the monstrous force shuddering through him. Please help me!

  He reached out, knowing fully well what he had fallen across was not wayward piece of furniture or upturned rug corner. He had felt soft flesh yield as his feet had stumbled. There was someone lying still and prone on the living room floor.

  Please don’t let it be Emma. Please.

  His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he realized. “Marie…!” he whispered, helplessly, horrified. He could see now that he had slipped in blood. It was pooled on the floor, standing out starkly against the pale planks of wood. Marie’s skirt was jerked up and bunched around her waist, and her underpants lay in a pale tumble beside her. She had been stabbed so many times, the front of her light-colored blouse was stained dark.

  Jo had told him about Nathan Gambit, the man she worked with at the hospital, the one she had recognized as her assailant―as the Watcher. Oh, my God, Jay thought. He followed her here this morning. He came back tonight to wait for her, but he found Marie instead. Marie and Emma…!

  He moaned, an anguished, agonized sound. He wanted to scream, but couldn’t. The thrumming in his hands, the terrible, terrifying power that consumed them was ready to be unleashed, and it would not be denied, not even for grief or horror.

  I can’t do this! he screamed in his mind. I have to find Emma! Please don’t make me do this! Please! I can’t―

  He touched Marie’s face, his hands falling of their own accord, settling against her cheeks. He gasped sharply as pain seized his chest, tightening throughout him, crushing the breath and voice from him. His head snapped back as his eyes turned up toward the ceiling. Briefly, he caught a glimpse of someone in the adjacent dining room; the shadowy figure of a man sitting in a chair, waiting for Jay, watching him.

  “She wouldn’t scream,” the man said, nodding once to indicate Marie. “No matter what I did to her, she wouldn’t cry out. I think she didn’t want the little girl to hear and come running to help her. She’s hiding somewhere. I haven’t found her yet.”

  “You…you son of a bitch,” Jay seethed. “Don’t you touch my child―”

  And then the light hit him, searing through him, knocking him instantly unconscious and stripping from him whatever it needed to raise the dead.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jay came to with a start, his eyes flying wide, his breath caught in bewildered surprise as he blinked up at an unfamiliar ceiling and rows of fluorescent lights overhead.

  “It’s alright,” he heard Jo say, and he jerked again, whi
pping his head around to find her standing beside him, leaning over chrome bedrails to reach for his hand. “Jay,” she said gently, her fingers closing against his. “It’s alright. Don’t be frightened.”

  A hospital. He was in a hospital, with IV tubes connected to his hand, and twin bags of innocuous, clear liquid dripping slowly into him. The head of his bed had been elevated slightly, so that he was in a somewhat seated position, and he felt something funny against his face. He raised his hand, slowly, weakly, and felt thin rubber tubing draped across either cheek, positioned under his nose.

  “It’s to help you breathe,” Jo said, her voice still calm and soothing. She caught his hand and lowered it to the bed again, preventing him from pulling the cannula away from his nose. “It’s oxygen, Jay.”

  His head was swimming, his mind fading. His eyelids drooped heavily, and he struggled to keep them open.

  “You need to sleep,” Jo whispered, stroking his hair.

  He shook his head, frowning. “Where…where is Emma?” he asked, his voice little more than a ragged croak.

  “She’s here. She’s safe.”

  His breath escaped him in a long, heaving sigh of relief, and his eyelids fluttered closed. It was a short-lived reprieve, however; his eyes flew open again, wide with horror as he remembered. “Marie!” he gasped, closing his hand fiercely against Jo’s, making her wince. “Is…is she…?”

  Jo’s expression shifted, her brows lifting in tender sympathy, her eyes mournful, and he understood. “She’s here at Metro, too,” she said. “She’s alive but…”

  “Oh, my God,” he whispered, closing his eyes. He couldn’t bear to hear the rest. The words, “persistent vegetative state” and “no discernable brain activity” slammed into him with brutal force, and he pressed his hands over his face, crying out in soft anguish.