Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 173

Though it was dark, with his eyes he zeroed in on her. He walked swiftly, hiding in the shadows, keeping near the empty buildings. Hard to believe any woman was stupid enough to take a shortcut and walk home after a night of writhing around a pole for money. Money used to support a habit instead of her child.

She deserved to die.

And she was lucky he was here to save her from her lowly existence.

He'd heard her complaints about her life, the unfairness of what fate had cast her, but she hadn't wanted to change. It was all just idle chatter, used to garner his sympathy.

Smiling to himself, he followed her, then took a shortcut through a few vacant lots where, with his heightened vision, he could avoid the rubble, rats, and scavenging dogs.

Tonight, he thought, his blood singing through his veins, he'd release her from her misery.

Karen was edgy. Nervous.

And sick of the mess that was her life.

It had been a bad night, she decided as she clipped her way home on high heels that were beginning to hurt. She was walking through a part of the Big Easy where she'd once felt safe but now was a little nervous. But she had no choice: this route was the quickest way since her car had broken down a few weeks ago and she couldn't afford a cab.

Besides, she needed a little time to breathe some fresh air and think. Get away from the throbbing music, hooting customers, and smell of stale beer and cigarettes. The club had gone downhill, too. The night was a little chilly, but the further she got from Bourbon Street, the quieter and calmer it seemed. She even imagined she could smell the river, which was probably just her imagination.

She had danced until eleven, when she'd been forced off the stage by Big Al's latest "find," a girl who wasn't a day over sixteen unless Karen missed her guess. But the girl, Baby Jayne, with Kewpie doll makeup, long blond pigtails that nearly swiped her tight little a.s.s, see through baby-doll outfit, and b.o.o.bs that would make Dolly Parton envious, had all the customers streaming in for the after-midnight show. Even though she was awkward with the d.a.m.ned pole. Karen had watched a lot of the younger woman's act, spent time lurking near the door, observing Baby Jayne's p.o.r.nographic moves. There was no seduction in her dance, no allure, just the obvious.

Now, it was late.

Nearly three in the d.a.m.ned morning.

It just wasn't fair.

To think that at thirty, she, Bodiluscious, had been demoted. Her tips a few years back had been incredible-on some nights she'd made enough to pay her rent and buy a bit of nose candy-but now, after the storm had nearly wiped out the town and Baby Jayne had strolled into the club, Karen was lucky to have enough money to pay the bills each month. Which was probably good. If she had extra money, it tended to find her nasal pa.s.sages. She'd been clean for over two months and she intended to stay that way. She was gonna put her life together. h.e.l.l, she couldn't dance forever.

She kept angling toward her little house, which had miraculously suffered only minor damage in the storm. For that, she'd been thankful.

She cut across the street and felt as if someone were watching her, which was ridiculous. For G.o.d's sake, that was her career, to have men ogling her, the more the better. She knew knew what that felt like. what that felt like.

Click, click, click. Her footsteps kept right on hitting what was left of the sidewalk. And she kept her eyes ahead of her, afraid to make a misstep on the cracked concrete and end up turning her ankle. What then? Her career would definitely be over.

Maybe it was time to patch things up with her mother and kid, move back to San Antonio. At least that way she could see her daughter more than once or twice a month. She smiled to herself when she thought of Darcy; now that girl would go far. At ten she was already at the top of her fourth-grade cla.s.s and the piece of art she'd made for Karen last Christmas was incredible. The kid was a genius even if she had a no-account father doing time for possession, and a mother who danced on a stage, making love to a metal pole six nights a week.

A car rolled slowly down the street and Karen just kept walking. New Orleans had become dangerous, and if the press were to be believed, the crime rate sky-high. But she was careful. Never headed out alone without her small pistol tucked beneath her jacket. If anyone tried to mess with her, she'd be ready.

The car pa.s.sed without incident, but she still felt edgy. Something wasn't right. Something more than Baby Jayne stompin' all over Bodiluscious's turf.

The feeling that she was being observed, maybe even followed, hung with her. She hazarded another quick glance over her shoulder and saw nothing...or did she? Was there someone just out of her line of vision?

Her skin crawled and a spurt of adrenaline shot through her, spurring her on. She was nearly running in the d.a.m.ned shoes now.

Don't go crazy. You're letting your imagination run wild.

But she opened the flap of her purse, where she could grab her pistol, cell phone, or canister of mace in one quick movement. She looked over her shoulder again, and saw no one.

Good. She was only three blocks from home now, approaching a safer area where the flood damage had been minimal and cleaned, the streetlights working, at least a quarter of the homes occupied, another quarter nearly cleaned and renovated.

Hurry, hurry, hurry!

She was walking so fast she was nearly breathless, and that was something she prided herself on: how fit and strong she kept herself with the dancing. She made it into the pool of light cast by the first strong street lamp along her route and she drew in a calming breath. She looked behind herself once more, then realized, standing in the circle of light, she was an easy, visible target.

You're almost home, girl. Just keep walking. Fast.

She saw her house on the corner, then cursed herself for forgetting to turn on even one light. She hated walking into a dark house, but at least she was home.

She raced up the new walk and newly fixed front steps, her key in her hand. On the porch, she opened the still-squeaking screen door, then unlocked the dead bolt and shouldered open the new, heavy front door.

Inside, the smell of fresh paint a.s.sailed her as she flipped the dead bolt and reached for the light. The house was silent. Strangely silent. No hum of the refrigerator. No whisper of the air from the fans. She flipped the switch.

Nothing happened.

The entry hall light remained dark.

Scraaaape.

The sound of a shoe against the floor?

Oh, Jesus, was someone inside?

Her heart fluttered wildly with fear as she flipped several switches. No lights. She fumbled into her purse for her pistol with one hand, while the other scrabbled on the door for the dead bolt.

A hand clamped over hers.

Harsh.

Strong.

Brutal.

It crushed her fingers and she started to scream, only to have another hand cover her mouth.

Oh, G.o.d, no! She squirmed wildly. Writhed. Bit the leather covering her lips. Kicked at his legs, but his grip only tightened.

"Slow down, Karen Lee," he said in a voice that was as seductive as it was frightening.

He knew who she was? This wasn't random? She fought harder.

"There's nothing you can do," he a.s.sured her. "Nowhere you can go."

That's where you're wrong, c.o.c.ksucker, she thought as her fingers brushed the cool nickel of the pistol. She grabbed the gun, yanked it out of the purse, heard the bag hit the ground with a soft thud. She drew her hand up, ready to blow this jerkwad to h.e.l.l when she caught a glimpse, just a hint, of the guy's face and she nearly dropped the gun. she thought as her fingers brushed the cool nickel of the pistol. She grabbed the gun, yanked it out of the purse, heard the bag hit the ground with a soft thud. She drew her hand up, ready to blow this jerkwad to h.e.l.l when she caught a glimpse, just a hint, of the guy's face and she nearly dropped the gun.

Red eyes glared at her, f.u.c.kin' red red eyes from deep in the folds of some black hood. eyes from deep in the folds of some black hood.

A face black as night with ghoulish features and purplish lips was inches from hers. The face of evil, The face of evil, she thought wildly. she thought wildly.

Oh, G.o.d! She nearly peed.

Hot breath washed over her.

Holy s.h.i.+t.

She struggled. Fought. Even though she was shaking from head to foot. Fumbling with the safety, she tried to think clearly. All she had to do was swing the gun around, over her shoulder, and fire.

But from the corner of her eye, she saw the thing, this fiend from h.e.l.l, draw back those awful lips and expose a nasty array of sharp white teeth.

Sweet Jesus!

She had the safety off.

Immediately, she swung her arm upward.

Teeth slashed.

Blood spurted.

Pain screamed up her arm.

She squeezed the trigger.

Blam! The gun fired. The gun fired.

Blasted next to her ear.

The smell of cordite filled the air.

But her attacker held on, twisting back her arm so that she was helpless, her legs no longer able to kick. Her shoulder wrenched, throbbing in pain.

Oh, dear G.o.d, she'd missed hitting him. And the pain...excruciating. Blinding. Help me, Lord, help me fight him off! Help me, Lord, help me fight him off!

She arched her back, still fighting, still hoping for a chance to get one good kick to his s.h.i.+ns or his d.a.m.ned crotch. But he was heavy and strong. All sinew and muscle and determination.

Agony tore through her.

Her legs buckled.

In the darkness she saw the floor rus.h.i.+ng up at her and now could only hope that somewhere, someone had heard the shot.

Bam! Her head cracked against the new hardwood. Her head cracked against the new hardwood.

She nearly pa.s.sed out from the pain.

He fell atop her and s.h.i.+fted his hands. Before she could scream his fingers were on her throat pressing harder and harder as he straddled her. Alarmed by the red eyes glinting with malice, she fought back, her hands flailing at him, sc.r.a.ping at the leather on his body. If he was going to kill her, by G.o.d, she wasn't going to make it easy.

But her lungs were burning, shrieking for air, and the hands on her throat were tightening so that her eyes felt as if they might pop right out of her head.

She kicked and writhed frantically.

Her lungs were bursting with the pressure.

Blackness seeped into the edges of her vision.

No! No! No!

She tried to scream and failed, couldn't even drag in a breath.

Oh, G.o.d, oh...G.o.d...

Her legs stopped moving.

Her arms were leaden.

The burning in her lungs was pure agony.

Let me die, G.o.d, please. End this torture!

He leaned down and in the fog that was overcoming her she saw his fangs. White. s.h.i.+ning. Needle-sharp.

She knew what was to come.

A quick puncture. A quick sharp nip of pain as his hands relaxed and she dragged air into her windpipe in a wet hiss.

But it was too late.

She knew she was going to die.

CHAPTER 14.

"If you want to keep them for the full day, they're due back tomorrow at"-the clerk in the camouflage T and dusty jeans looked at the clock hanging over the door of the Rent-It-All store-"nine-thirty-six, but I'll give y'all till ten." Winking at Kristi, he offered her a gap-toothed smile that showed flecks of tobacco. She tried not to notice.

"Kind of you," she said, trying not to sound too sarcastic. He was, after all, just a kid.

About eighteen years old, "Randy" as the name pinned to his s.h.i.+rt claimed, was gangly and fighting a case of raging acne, but still tried to flirt with her. Kristi smiled back. At least he'd helped her locate the right kind of bolt cutters she needed in this dusty warehouse full of equipment and would be do-it-yourselfers. "That'll be thirty bucks."

"Really?"